Hunne do Lein (Heroes of the World)
by Morninglight
Summary: Sequel to the Jagged Crown. After Alduin's devastating attack on Solitude, Balgruuf flees to High Hrothgar to mourn what he's lost, Ulfric joins the Blades, and the world faces annihilation on three fronts as Alduin's return opens the door for other ancient evils. But hope and light can exist anywhere... and Alduin, Miraak and Harkon have the heroes of the world to contend with.
1. Prologue: The Price of Power

Note: Thanks for reading. This story is the sequel to _Faal Aldin Du'ul (The Jagged Crown)._ The series has become _Teyye do Aurelii,_ Tales of the Aurelii, in recognition of the fact that while the story is about Balgruuf as Dragonborn, Irileth as Nerevarine and Farkas as Harbinger, much of the backstory and drama revolves around Lia, Irkand and Martin.

…

**Prologue: The Price of Power**

High Hrothgar, 1st Sun's Dawn 4E 202

"We know."

Arngeir bowed to Balgruuf, seeing the desolation in his ice-blue eyes, the catch of grief in his Voice. Driven by duty and perhaps ambition, the Dragonborn had grasped for power and been cosmically rebuked, Paarthunax surrendering his life – his very soul – to bring him back to the Way of the Voice. Stricken by grief, the Master of the Greybeards forbore from chiding – lashing out – at the shattered man before him. He was here and not at Sky Haven Temple. It was enough.

"Ulfric – Nahdofelniir – has joined the Blades as their first Tongue since the fall of Cloud Ruler," Balgruuf reported flatly. "It was the suggestion of Paarthunax."

"We know." Arngeir gestured to the centre of the Great Hall. "I grieve for him as much as Paarthunax. Such mastery of the Voice, understanding the breath of Kynareth, the ways of meditation and silence…"

"Any word from Tayfunvahzah?" Balgruuf's question was mechanical. "He might want to know that Sedinkoorven – Lia, the Grand Master of the Blades – is dead."

Arngeir stopped dead in his tracks. "And why should the new Grand Master of the Greybeards care about some Akaviri harlot?"

The Master found himself confronted with a golden gaze, a deep anger breaking through the bleakness on Balgruuf's face. "I will allow this once as you mourn for Paarthunax. But Sedinkoorven died because she was weak from injuries gained protecting Tayfunvahzah from harm at the Blades' hands."

"This I… did not know." Arngeir flushed with shame. Paarthunax had always chided him for his intemperance and quick tongue; yet again he'd fallen from the Way of the Voice. "I must confess to surprise."

"Where other men saw enemies, Lia mostly saw allies," Balgruuf observed regretfully. "She was Dawnbringer, you know that? But Alduin slaughtered her and most of Solitude because… I… fucking… _hesitated._"

_Ah, we come to it._ "Why?"

"He was immune to arrows, my Shouts barely touched him, and he did not land. Then he used a great Shout that summoned falling fiery stones from the sky…" Balgruuf's Voice choked with grief, with shame. "First Blade Athis died protecting me. Paarthunax died to keep him from killing me. I only found Lia's hand…"

Balgruuf fell to his knees in the exact place he stood when greeted by the Greybeards on being recognised as Dragonborn. "I focused on the civil war because I needed a united Skyrim. How can I fight dragons when my fellow Jarls war around me?"

"You are no longer a Jarl," Arngeir reminded him sternly. "You relinquished that title to your brother."

Balgruuf nodded, tears running down his long face. "And my children hate me for it, though Nelkir will still inherit. They are angry I let them believe me dead."

Arngeir sighed. He'd underestimated the devotion of the Blades but no doubt this Lia – this woman who Balgruuf obviously loved – had advised him to focus on secular matters as she'd not understood the threat of Alduin. He would not say "I told you so", for that would cheapen the memory of Paarthunax, but he would make certain that Balgruuf never strayed from the Way of the Voice again.

"Junseahrol… Such a name was reflective of what you _did_, not who you _are,_" Arngeir continued, regretting the necessity – as always – of breaking down a novice's arrogance. Balgruuf's two years here in his youth had mostly been spent in meditation or rivalry with Ulfric; the Master had assumed that the wisdom from that time lingered as the Dragonborn was not a flighty man. He was wrong.

"You will study with Tayfunvahzah, whose mastery of the Way of the Voice surpasses mine, though he was nothing compared to Paarthunax. Your life is not your own, but Skyrim's; your Voice is not your own, but Akatosh's. Relinquish the relics of pride and power you have clung to, like a child with its toys, for they are what burden you."

With every command, Balgruuf obeyed, obviously relieved to relinquish responsibility. Soon he was naked but for a breechclout, Borri coming with a hooded robe of grey homespun and leather sandals.

Arngeir sighed inwardly. He would need to be hard, for the memory of Paarthunax, for the good of Skyrim. But Balgruuf needed to understand that while his Voice was his to wield at will, there were _consequences _for the placing of ambition over the good of all.

_Alduin was wounded, but not forestalled. I will have to be harsh, to make certain Balgruuf knows that the only place he will find peace is here._ They needed fresh blood in the Greybeards and what better way for the Last Dragonborn to end his life than in understanding the power of the Thu'um?

With head and shoulders bowed, hood raised to cover his face, there was little to differentiate Balgruuf from the rest of the Greybeards. He would undergo nine days of fasting to discover his true draconic name, then subsist on a diet of snowberries and snowmelt for the nine days after that. After that, he would live on the same thin stew, flatbread and snowberries as the other Greybeards.

_It is hard, but necessary. His pride, his arrogance… They must be purged, lanced like a wound. Only then will he be fit to study with Tayfunvahzah. I wish it weren't so, but…_

Arngeir sighed again as their new novice was guided outside for his first meditation. The cold, the hunger and the isolation had worked wonders on him. They would help Balgruuf become a worthy servant of Skyrim. He should have done it with Ulfric.

_I'm sorry, lad, but this needs to be done. I hope one day you will understand._

…

Sky Haven Temple

"Balgruuf did _what_?"

"Returned to the Greybeards for the knowledge to destroy Alduin," Ulfric informed the wiry Breton loremaster Esbern. It had been hard to bring the news of their Grand Master and First Blade's deaths to the newly reformed Order, harder still to offer his loyalty when Arngeir's warnings about their manipulative nature rang in his ears decades after being given, and hardest when the catalyst of all this suffering was his own damned pride.

They stood before a wall that was hung with dozens of bronze sword-racks with plaques beneath; Esbern said that it had been a property of Akaviri magic that there would always be one more rack for the honoured dead. Traditionally, each Blade received a katana and wazikashi forged personally for them, but outside of Eorlund Grey-Mane, there were none who could forge the ancient curved weapons – so Lia's Nordic dagger was hung above the golden plaque bearing her name, rank and titles, and Athis' wazikashis of Skyforge Steel were above his silver one.

It had been decided by the Blades that the Oathblade would become the weapon of the Grand Master. Ulfric, who had relinquished Foe-Frightener along with the title of Jarl of Windhelm to his adopted brother Ralof Stormblade, carried no weapon beyond the wazikashi; he _was_ a weapon, the first of a new generation of militant Tongues.

The small box containing the ashes of Lia's hand had been interred beneath a spreading juniper tree in the courtyard, a small cairn with a plaque bearing the Dovahzul name Balgruuf had given her set up by Irkand. The Listener of the Dark Brotherhood was both Death Incarnate and a man like any other, albeit colder and harder; his woman Astrid and adopted daughter Babette humanised him, shared his grief, and were equally murderous. Esbern and Ulfric had left to give the dark family – and Martin, Lia's son, who had been brought by Brynjolf of the Thieves' Guild – time to be alone and mourn.

"They'll work on his guilt and grief," Esbern finally said.

"Yes." Ulfric recalled how Arngeir could be. But he also understood that being broken down might be what Balgruuf needed; if he was strong enough to wear the Jagged Crown, then he would bring himself back up. If not… then all he had to do was stay alive to kill Alduin.

"We asked them for help during the Great War. Told them the plans of the Thalmor to destroy everything. Do you know what Arngeir said?"

"The affairs of men are not our concern. If the world ends, then so be it?"

"…Huh, he trained you. But he also added, rather smugly, that the Blades had brought it on themselves."

"I'm sorry…"

"What for? You're with us now. If Balgruuf wants to listen to them, there's nothing we can do about it." Esbern sighed, touching the Nordic dagger sadly. "I joined the Blades under Arius Aurelius, Lia's grandfather. He lived under the shadow of his own grandmother, Aurelia Northstar, and wanted to save the world like she had."

"And so he triggered the Great War."

"…Yes." Esbern's voice was stark in confession. "We thought we could handle them. We were wrong and we died for it."

"Riften may have shaken their operations in Skyrim as a whole, but they are still strong in Haafinger."

"Indeed." Esbern rubbed his bald spot thoughtfully. "Does the name Thorald Grey-Mane mean anything to you?"

"Second-born son of the greatest smith in Skyrim? A loyal Stormcloak? Of course it does!" Ulfric's voice was harsh. "What has he got to do with…?"

"The Companions were hired to find him after his disappearance, but all Farkas could determine was that he'd been taken by Thalmor."

"…Northwatch Keep."

"Yes." Esbern's gaze was grim. "Tullius and Elisif are prepared to look the other way since Skyrim is a damned mess at the moment. You're hurting, lad, and you need someone to lash out at. And since Thorald was on our recruitment list anyway…"

"Northwatch Keep?" A light, childish voice interrupted their discussion; both men looked down to find Babette watching them with eerie golden eyes. "Be careful there. Castle Volkihar is just across the channel and Lord Harkon's gotten… active… again."

"…Harkon, Volkihar, why does that ring a bell?" Esbern muttered to himself.

"Harkon and his clan are pure-bred vampires descended directly from Molag Bal himself," the uncanny child responded. "The Blades are more impressive than I expected, but they would be helpless against the powers of a Vampire Lord."

"…You're no child." She was too pale, too wise and her teeth were pearly and sharp.

"I am, eternally so." Babette smiled, showing her fangs. "I am content with the life I have. Unlike Harkon, I don't seek the end of the world."

"…You have got to be kidding me. We've already got Alduin on our plate-"

"These things are interconnected, Loremaster. Alduin's return opened doors so terrible that the Night Mother Herself is… concerned." Irkand's silk-smooth Imperial voice, at odds with his round Ra Gada face, interrupted Esbern's outburst. The two men had served together in the Great War… and given that it had been Irkand who slew Titus Mede II, Ulfric felt an odd kinship with the assassin.

"Thank you for the warning," Esbern responded. "Ulfric has enough power to handle a few vampires."

Irkand sighed in frustration, throwing his hands in the air. "As you wish! Make my niece's sacrifice mean nothing."

"…You evil son of a bitch."

"You just realised that now?" Ulfric asked sarcastically, drawing a sharp bitter laugh from Irkand.

"You're smart, Ulfric." Irkand looked at him quietly and murmured, "Kill a few fucking Thalmor for me."

"Gladly," Ulfric agreed. And he meant it. In these times of chaos and madness, a Listener could be a friend… and a Tongue a warrior.

_The Greybeards have their place… but I have always been meant to be a warrior. Why else would my Dovahzul name be 'Fury of Winter'?_

Power had its price and Ulfric regretted the lives lost to his ambition. But all he had done was for Skyrim, and though Balgruuf would make the better High King when he came back to himself, none could love the homeland of mankind more than the Stormcloak himself. His life was not his, but Skyrim's; his Voice not his, but Talos'.


	2. Dragon-Born and Star-Marked

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Includes head-canon about Dunmer society and the Daedric Princes.

…

**Dragon-Born and Star-Marked**

Raven Rock, Solstheim, 1st Morning Star 4E 202

Irileth jumped from the gangplank of the Northern Maiden, followed by her self-appointed huscarl Jenassa and Steward Ambarys Rendar. She wore chitin armour but for a thin silver circlet that had Azura's Star socketed into it; if she was going to embrace her legend, she might as well do it wholeheartedly.

"By Azura!" one of the Raven Rock guards blurted. "Someone get Councillors Morvayn and Arano-"

"I will go to them," Irileth interrupted reassuringly. "I may be the Nerevarine, but I am still an exile coming home."

"Humility?" Jenassa murmured sardonically.

"It is one thing to be proud in Skyrim. Another to be arrogant in Morrowind."

The path to Morvayn Manor was short and swiftly becoming lined by weary, cynical Dunmer. Irileth had heard that things were bad on Solstheim, which was why she'd travelled here while Balgruuf consolidated power as High King in Skyrim, but the rumours were the palest shadow of reality. She and her people had a lot of work to do.

The Councillors, resplendent in formal robes that had the appearance of being hastily pulled from wardrobes and donned, and their spouses met her at the door to the manor. "Welcome to Raven Rock, Nerevarine," Councillor Morvayn greeted, bowing formally. "How might we serve you?"

Irileth caught the man's shoulders and pulled him back up. "It would be better to ask how _I_ may serve _you_. I left Morrowind in a shambles after I fled the Red Mountain's eruption. With events in Skyrim, I realised it was high time I returned and tried to set things right."

"Is it true Alduin has returned?" an elderly Imperial clad in rough homespun asked.

"Yes," Irileth confirmed. "But he is Skyrim's problem."

"If Alduin eats Skyrim, we'll be next on the menu," observed Arano dryly.

"Then may he choke on us all. But I know the Last Dragonborn, and were I Alduin, I would be planning my last rites."

Several grim chuckles met her jest, though it was serious. Irileth hated to leave Balgruuf without protection, but Athis wasn't a half-bad Blade, and Lia had a talent for inspiring loyalty.

Morvayn rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "House Redoran led the other Great Houses in reclaiming what we could after the Red Year. It is good to see you, Nerevarine, but-"

"I was Hortator of the Three Great Houses," Irileth interrupted quietly. "It is true I was closest to Hlaalu and that some of their number are part of my warband. But I am also part of Redoran and Telvanni."

"Neloth will _love_ that," muttered Arano with a sigh. "A warband, you say?"

"Dunmer, exiled to Skyrim, who would return home. A thousand men, women and children…" Irileth held up her hand, showing Moon-and-Star. "I swear by Azura we look only for land of our own. Several hundred have Nordic blood, hence our choice of Solstheim instead of the mainland, but we mean no harm to Raven Rock or Tel Mithryn or any of the other settlements on the island unless they attack us."

Councillor Morvayn sighed. "Raven Rock is dying, Nerevarine. The ebony has dried up and we only remain because we're too stubborn to leave."

_My daughter, there is ebony deep within the earth. But there are greater problems befalling Solstheim than lack of trade and the Red Year._

_ What do you mean, Mother?_

_ The Dunmer need you to be their Champion._ Azura paused. _This will help your Dragonborn friend too._

_ …Very well._

"Azura has told me more ebony lies beneath. But I will need to rest a day or so before entering the mine."

An excited murmuring sprang out in the crowd. Morvayn looked sceptical but nodded his assent. "Ah, how many will we need to accommodate? You mentioned a warband-?"

"I and a party of fifty are the vanguard. The others are still hiring and building ships back in Skyrim." Irileth smiled. "If we may, let us camp just outside the Bulwark."

"I will not have the Nerevarine camping like a peasant!" an old Dunmer man protested. "I, Vendil Severin, have enough space for her and her personal bodyguard."

Irileth bowed her head graciously, a trick learned from Balgruuf. "I am grateful, but I am still an exile. Let us earn our places on Solstheim."

The old Imperial actually cheered as a grim-faced Orc scoffed. But the Councillors both looked impressed. "As you wish, Dragon-Born and Star-Marked," Morvayn responded. "At least let us feed you."

The Nerevarine laughed. "Gladly! I haven't had a good boar and yam stew in… well… two hundred and four years."

"If you will follow me then…?"

Irileth did, wracking her brain for the details of socialising she'd observed Balgruuf doing at the Jarl's obligatory feasts. She wished he was here now; Nord or not, he was a canny politician and would have had these men eating out of his hand while letting them get what they want.

_"A good Steward, a good Jarl, does his best to see both sides satisfied or at least content with your decision. He must speak with truth, so that when he lies, all will believe him. He takes the credit, good and bad, for all his servants' actions. First and foremost, he thinks of his people, for what is a Jarl without his Hold, and what is a Hold without its people?"_

She sat down to what feast the Councillors and their wives could provide, using the skills gained from her years as a huscarl to scan them. There was trouble brewing with the Severins; she saw the lines of a Hlaalu in their faces and wondered if they would want her to bring the Great House back to prominence. She didn't know if it was worth it, no matter how well she remembered Barenziah and Helseth.

_I have a lot of work ahead of me. Azura give me strength…_

…

"Irileth?"

"Aranea… What is it?" She set aside _The_ _Poison Song_ and smiled at her spiritual advisor. Though blessed with no more visions, she was still favoured by the Daedra and had the power of a priestess.

"There is something strange going on. You need to see this."

'Something strange' was literally every person from both town and camp working on some odd shrine.

"Azura's favour protects us," Aranea murmured. "I've heard rumours of a strange cult. One that speaks of 'the True Dragonborn'."

"Lord Miraak is the True Dragonborn!" screamed one of the Dunmer men working on the shrine. "You, false one, will die!"

_They think I'm Balgruuf!_ Irileth thought before drawing her ebony sword.

A trio of spellswords and nightblades attacked her and Aranea. It was almost tragic how quickly they died. "Well, Azura warned me there was a greater danger here and that dealing with it would help Balgruuf," Irileth noted dryly.

"So nice of them to reveal themselves," Aranea agreed as she ripped off an enchanted piece of jewellery. Dunmer rarely abided by fool notions of fair play and honour when it came to their enemies.

"I'll keep their attention focused on me," Irileth decided. "These bastards threaten my people… and the world. I don't know who Miraak is, but I'll mount his head on my wall."

Aranea rolled her eyes. "You are so _Nord_ sometimes…"

Irileth grinned at her. "We all can't be perfect like you."

"Azura must have the patience of a saint with you…"

_Patience of a mother, _the Daedric Prince observed fondly. _Normally I wouldn't care for a Nord, even if he was your friend, but Balgruuf's the only thing that can stop Alduin. After all, he is the _Last _Dragonborn. You're making the right choice._

Then before Irileth could ask about that cryptic statement, dawn came and the villagers returned home in a bewitched state, the Daedric Prince's presence vanishing. The Nerevarine sighed; no rest for the wicked and now she had some insane being trying to kill her.

_Maybe I'll get lucky and Alduin will stop by for a snack,_ she thought ruefully as she headed back into town to begin her day.

…

7th Morning Star

Irileth dropped her invisibility spell and drew her weapon across Vendil Ulen's throat, feeling the life pour out of him with a single swipe. She felt the strength from the enchantment on the blade she used for assassinations, Vendil's life healing her wounds, and she allowed herself a dark grin. The cunning of foresight, the sweetness of a lie, the blade in the dark – this was what it meant to be Dunmer.

Hrongar had been reluctant to grant her the Ebony Blade until she reminded him of who and what she was. "It will serve me better in Solstheim than here poisoning your minds," she'd told him. Finally the Jarl of Whiterun gave it to her with a vow that if she used it against his family, he'd kill her.

The first charge had come from befriending a hound and leading it to Boethiah's Shrine; the second from slaying the foolish former Champion and gaining the Ebon Mail, which Irileth now wore. Third, fourth, fifth and sixth charges had come from hiring two mercenaries – nameless thugs from Windhelm and Riften – and putting Agrenor Once-Honoured and Rolff Stone-Fist out of their misery after giving one a coin and beating the other up. Seventh, eighth and ninth had been the Severin – the Ulen – family. She could feel the song of the Ebony Blade demanding she strike out at Aranea or the mercenary Tedro, both of whom had accompanied her on this duty.

_So close… _Mephala crooned. _I can taste it._

_ Well, keep on drooling. I do not betray those who have been true to me,_ Irileth told Her. _If You don't like it, I can throw Your Blade into the sea._

_ You think you are honourable?_

_ No. But gods, Boethiah is more trustworthy than You and I belong to Azura._

_ I have always shown you favour, Irileth. I would make you my Champion…_

"Mephala being difficult again?" Aranea asked dryly.

"Of course." Irileth wiped the Ebony Blade on a dead Morag Tong's cloak and sheathed it. "Is it just me or are the Morag Tong more incompetent these days?"

"Definitely more incompetent," Tedro observed dryly. "May I say, Nerevarine, it's good to have you back in Morrowind."

"It's good to be back, though I'm likely a bit too Nord for the mainland. But Solstheim…" Irileth sighed and looked over the corpses. "I feel like I'm home."

"Well, after this, the Councillors will owe you considerably," Tedro noted. "I can imagine the Redoran being grateful."

"I'll need it," she agreed. "Let us go. This place stinks."

…

"Lord Miraak will destroy you!"

"Another day, another cultist." Jenassa sounded disappointed. She preferred more competent enemies for her art.

"This is getting tedious." Irileth killed the cultist easily, the Ebony Blade ripping his life from his body. The skinny Nord fell to the ground, withered like an ancient corpse, and the Nerevarine sighed.

"…Agreed." Something in the tone of Jenassa's voice raised Irileth's hackles. She forced her posture to remain relaxed as she walked towards the old abandoned farm where two lovers from Skyrim had planned to live happily ever after. Some bandits had slain them, a killing well-deserved.

Jenassa took the huscarl's position at her back on the left side while Aranea, a talented battlemage, remained at her right. Irileth's neck prickled; she never mistrusted such warnings.

"Do you wonder what Helseth and Barenziah would think of you now?" the huscarl asked suddenly. "Putting down the Ulens, courting Redoran's favour…"

"Barenziah understood necessity. Helseth would have despised the Ulens for their sloppiness."

"Sloppiness?"

"Planning to kill Morvayn after buying Raven Rock's favour was tacky. A true child of the Reclamations would have arranged matters so that once their identity was discovered, Morvayn would have been in too much debt to be able to touch them. He would have actively concealed them for fear of falling from grace himself. Instead of giving charity, the Ulens should have been doing what I have: actively work to make Raven Rock prosperous and strong so that House Redoran is in my debt."

The Ebony Blade hung loose in Irileth's hand as Jenassa's voice faltered. "…You plan to… betray Councillor Morvayn."

"No." Irileth turned and rammed her hilt down on Jenassa's sword-arm as she was drawing her dagger, snapping the frail limb like a twig. She'd always relied on speed over stamina. "I knew you were Morag Tong the moment I accepted your service. I knew you were Hlaalu. I accepted it regardless because you were competent and I thought I could rely on you once you understood certain truths."

Jenassa's eyes widened, then went dull as the Ebony Blade was rammed through her gut. She withered on the sword as Mephala laughed.

_My Blade is returned to full glory. Go and spread the small subversions which undermine the order of trust and intimacy-_

_ Mephala, shut up! _Azura's voice was exasperated. _I know Whose voice spoke to the Tribunal that fell day when Nerevar died. I only let You be because You were swept aside like Boethiah and I._

_ Indeed,_ agreed Boethiah. _You really need to learn Your place._

_ Can You three please continue this discussion elsewhere? I don't think my head's the appropriate place._

_ Of course, dear,_ Azura agreed apologetically.

_You should take your mother's place, _Mephala whispered. _You've killed Gods before._

_ Mephala… _SHUT UP!Azura's voice was thunderous as the Daedric Prince of sex, lies and murder yowled in pain at the psychic rebuke. The Lady of the Twilight never abided fools.

_Maybe we should make Irileth Mephala's replacement?_ Boethiah suggested. _She's certainly more competent…_

_ There's a thought. Let's discuss it elsewhere?_

_ After you, Lady…_

_ After _You, _Boethiah. I am no fool._

The Daedric Prince of treachery, deceit and overthrow of authority sighed. _Do not test My patience, Azura._

_ Do not test _Mine_. I will always see You coming._

_ Elsewhere, please?_ Irileth wouldn't beg, but this was a family quarrel she didn't want to hear.

Azura gave wordless assent before leaving at the same time as Boethiah.

Irileth fell to her feet, feeling drained. "I didn't want to do that," she told Aranea wearily.

"I know." The priestess knelt beside her, hand on the Ebony Blade to help Irileth pull it out. "But Jenassa, as you said, was sloppy. Like the Ulens."

Irileth wrapped her free hand around the priestess' own. "The cunning of foresight, the sweetness of a lie, the blade in the dark. These are what make us Dunmer. But they are tests of our true worth as Dunmer, not ends of themselves. And there must be trust, love and loyalty, else our people will fail."

The Nerevarine sighed. "A good Jarl, above all else, understands that his honour is that of his Hold and people, not his own. Many Jarls perform questionable acts – even Balgruuf – but they made the Hold stronger."

"That is why you betrayed Jenassa and the Ulens." Aranea sighed. "They never expected it."

"Which is why they died." Irileth squeezed her priestess' hand. "Let's go. Ambarys is likely frantic and the Councillors have promised some reward for destroying the Ulens."

_Every Jarl is the father of his Hold. But sometimes you must execute one of your family if they have betrayed you. When passing a judgment, a Jarl cannot be sentimental._

Irileth sighed as she rose to her feet to strip Jenassa of her arms and armour. Tedro would be a competent replacement. Much like Irileth herself had been two decades ago, when she'd killed a huscarl but been saved by the Jarl she'd been assigned to assassinate after nearly drowning.

_I will keep Miraak off your back, old friend. And when I am finished here, I will rejoin you for the battle against Alduin. That overgrown lizard will never know what hit him._


	3. Heart's Day

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. I know nothing on the making of either garum, an ancient Roman fermented fish sauce, or the modern day lutefiske; I just figure they're similar and work from there.

…

**Heart's Day**

Castle Dour, Solitude, 16th Sun's Dawn 4E 202

Tullius checked the table for the hundredth time. He wasn't sure where the aged Breton Blue cheese came from, but he could have kissed Erdi for finding it as Elisif loved the stuff. He'd finally managed to track down a bottle of garum made in Riften, of all places, that had a mild taste with an odd mellow finish. Rikke, on tasting the stuff, compared it to _lutefiske_, a dish of fish that were soaked in lye until practically jellied, and speculated that Bolli had probably skimmed the liquid that was changed every day. While he preferred the sharper taste of a good Cyrodiil garum, this one was good enough.

The dead had finally been gathered into piles and burned by the mages of Winterhold; J'zargo, the Archmage, and his second Tolfdir had been devastated about Lia's death. They'd agreed to aid Balgruuf any way they could when he returned from High Hrothgar… assuming he did. Esbern, who was apparently the new Grand Master, had kept Tullius in the loop about things on their end. Apparently Ulfric was already causing trouble with the Thalmor to divert their attention from Balgruuf.

Solitude would never be the same but through some miracle, most of the better part of town (and Castle Dour) was intact. Elisif had just given houses with no heirs to homeless families, resulting in a family of Stormcloaks moving into Erikur's mansion, and a trader named Brynjolf getting Proudspire. There was something ironic in it, but Tullius was too tired most of the time to figure out what and why; tonight would literally be the first time to himself he'd had in a while… and even now he felt guilty.

It went against the grain to let Ulfric walk away after his capitulation but Tullius had never left a grudge get in the way of his duty. After all, hadn't he put up with the Thalmor for the past twenty years?

_What the hell is happening in Cyrodiil?_ News from south of the border had ceased with Titus' death… and Motierre had gone missing along with half the Thalmor at the Embassy. Only Ondolemar, the head of their Justicars, and his people remained. Tullius feared for Cyrodiil but also knew he was trapped here in Skyrim until Alduin was put down.

"General?"

Tullius concealed his sigh at the entrance of Legate Rikke, who'd left shortly after the slaughter in Solitude to… consolidate loyalty to Tullius amongst the Fifth Bruma and to bring the Holds back under (loosely) Imperial sway. Ralof Stormblade, the highest-ranking Stormcloak remaining and the new Jarl of Windhelm, had agreed to a truce until the World-Eater was dead. And after that, Tullius intended to have Elisif woo the Nords back. They would need to be the backbone of the army against the Thalmor.

"Legate. I'll give you fair warning I'm expecting someone."

"Elisif?" The older Nord woman's tone was… mixed. Both approving but concerned.

Tullius gestured to the next room. "If you have a problem, let's talk it out."

The Legate shook her head. "It's not that, sir. As I recall, the union is her idea."

"Then what is it? Is Wabbajack driving her crazy?" He was concerned about her having the staff, even though it had saved his life during Alduin's attack. Getting danced on by Sheogorath will do that to a man.

"No."

"I know she's not happy with me sparing Ulfric, but beggars can't be choosers."

"She made it clear that if he enters the city, she'll gut him like a trout with a cheese knife." _And I'll wield it,_ he vowed silently.

"No…" Rikke removed her helmet and cloak, tucking one under her arm and folding the latter over it. "You should recall she's recently widowed, sir. There will be times she'll be… triggered… by things."

Tullius felt his fists clench. "I won't force her, Legate."

"I'm not saying you will. I'm just saying she will have outbursts and tears at the oddest times. You're also all she has, more or less. So you'll need to put your needs aside and tend to hers if you truly value her." There was a question in her voice.

The General looked aside. "I feel like Titus with Aurelia. The politics are sound and the woman willing… But she deserves better, even if she's mostly thinking of Skyrim. I'm just a bit too selfish to find alternatives for her, Stendarr forgive me, because she's a beautiful young woman who makes me feel a bit younger. I'll give her all the time she needs, as much as I can."

Rikke sighed, shaking her head. "There are _no_ alternatives. The Silver-Bloods, Ingmund, Siddgeir and Ralof will all sniff around her like a dog in heat. Besides, Elisif said the Madgoddess likes you."

"…Sheogorath likes me. Oh joy." Tullius could barely contain the sarcasm.

"Don't be horrible, Tullius!" Elisif chided him sweetly, stepping in around Rikke with the Wabbajack slung to her back. "Yes, the Daedric Prince of Madness likes me – and likes you because I like you."

_"I like her almost as much as I like cheese,"_ spoke the staff's distorted mouth, a rich contralto with a thick Bruma accent startling the General. _"The madness of a helpless widow becoming a force to be reckoned with during the time of ultimate chaos with a love of fine aged Breton Blue? What's not to like?"_

"Uh, thank you," Tullius finally replied. "So… Madgoddess?"

_"Yeah. Sheo ascended and I took over most of his duties after Martin… well." _There was a shrug and regret in her voice. _"Madness doesn't necessarily mean drooling idiocy or rabid cunning. Madness can test, can strengthen… If you've the strength of will to endure. Elisif did. Be proud of her."_

Rikke inhaled sharply. "Are you Northstar? The Shieldmaiden of Bruma?"

"The Champion of Cyrodiil?" Tullius blurted almost in unison.

_"You're in communication with the Nerevarine and yet you're shocked by me hanging around."_ The Madgoddess sounded amused. _"See what I mean about crazy times?"_

"Yeah… Uh…"

_"I cover chaos, whimsy, creativity, motley… You know, all things associated with madness. So long as Elisif keeps things interesting, she should be sane."_ The Madgoddess paused and added reassuringly, _"Unlike my predecessor, I don't send people crazy for shits and giggles. He still handles that side of things."_

"Why are you intervening?" Rikke, ever the consummate Legate, asked warily.

_"Because I'm Aurelii and a Blade. Some oaths transcend life, death and madness." _Another pause. _"And because Molag Bal and Hermaeus Mora are getting too big for their fucking breeches. Both gods are tediously ordered and are making serious moves in Skyrim. Alduin's your biggest threat, but don't discount Harkon or Miraak."_

"I… ah… see."

_"No, you don't. But you will see in time."_ The Wabbajack sighed. _"Sorry for dancing on you. Sheo gets a little unpredictable."_

"Isn't that part of his job description?"

_"True. Well, I need to be going because Elisif has particular plans for Heart's Day and I wouldn't want to interrupt them. Ta-ta, my darlings!"_ The staff fell silent as Elisif's cheeks went red as her braided hair.

"Ahem. Well, the Legates are with you, General, and are leaving Stormcloak territory unless requested to stay by the resident Jarls," Rikke reported hastily. "Balgruuf seems to be a good compromise candidate as a known moderate, though if… things go wrong when he fights Alduin… I've given thought about introducing Ralof to Idgrod the Younger. Fighting the World-Eater has put some things into perspective for the new Jarl of Windhelm… and he seems quite taken with Idgrod from the descriptions."

"Make it happen anyway," Elisif suggested. "Iddie's prescience is lesser than her mother and brother's, but it means she's 'here' more often."

"Very well." Rikke raked back dark hair, delivering the rest of her report quickly. "The Grey-Manes are refusing to cooperate in Whiterun until their youngest Thorald is delivered from the Thalmor. I, ah, took the liberty of arranging a breakout through the Blades as they were interested in the man."

"Hmm… Well done. The fewer Thalmor strongholds, the better."

"Jarl Hrongar's received a request from Hrafn the Foe-Reaper, the… Chief of Half-Moon Hold, to introduce one of his boys to Dagny Balgruufsdottir. The boys are Norcs – the whole damn Half-Moon family is – but they're solid, stable and prepared to back the Empire."

"I'll foster Dagny if Hrongar will let me," Elisif suggested. "If some of Hrafn's more civilised lads were here – doesn't Oleg want to be a bard? – and they hit it off…"

"My thought exactly. Dagny is… well… a spoilt little brat. But that's mostly because Balgruuf tried to make up to his kids with gifts for not being there… and well, they thought he was dead for a while." Rikke sighed. "I don't envy the Dragonborn, that's for certain."

"Neither do I." Elisif smiled at the Legate. "Now, go seek your rest. I have… plans."

Rikke grinned as Tullius felt his ears redden. What was it about this whimsical girl that made him feel twenty years younger and not an entire lecher?

"Yes, ma'am," the Legate murmured as she exited Tullius' dining room.

"Finally." Elisif closed the door behind the woman and leaned Wabbajack against it. "I'm sorry if Northstar getting involved startled you. She has a very odd sense of humour."

"Stranger things are going on… Maybe you could turn Alduin into a sweet roll or something." Tullius rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. "So… uh… happy Heart's Day."

"Oh Marcus." It was rare for Elisif to use his birth name. He was used to answering to Tullius as he was the last one. "Thank you for arranging this. I… need to get away, if just for a few hours."

"I could use the break myself," Tullius admitted softly. "I understand now why Titus always went to Bruma in the summers."

"You Colovians and your dignitas." Elisif's voice was fond, even affectionate. "You should try being a Nord for a day, Marcus."

The General smiled wryly. "Become a howling barbarian who throws his woman over his shoulder and carries her away to his longship? I'd love to oblige you, except my back would give out and boats hate me."

Elisif started chuckling, but it turned into quiet sobbing. Unsurely, he went over to hug the taller woman, mindful of what Rikke said about her needs coming first. She clung to him like he was a raft and she was drowning; it felt strange to be comforting a woman. Normally, he was dealing with either women whose company he'd bought or who were out of his reach. But Elisif was the first equal women he'd dealt with…

When it was over, she looked down at him, sniffing gratefully. "It's hard for a Nord man to admit when he can't do something. And… well… you're not far wrong from some of the overtures I've gotten from 'true Nord men'."

"I was a rancher who joined the Imperial Army a few years before the Great War," Tullius admitted. "Then those Thalmor bastards came through West Weald and killed… well… my family, the woman they'd arranged for me to wed, and everyone else. I figured I was married to the Empire after that. So no stealing women for me."

"Oh, Marcus…" Elisif sighed. "That's what I like about you. You're blunt and you're honest. And you actually treat me like I'm my own person."

"Wait, you aren't?" Tullius teased gently. "Besides, I wouldn't dare say otherwise. You're taller than me and could probably get Rikke to beat me up. Assuming I wasn't turned into a sweet roll."

She chuckled again, the sound a bit watery. "I'm tired of being alone," she confessed starkly. "I cared for Torygg, but he wasn't my choice. But he loved me anyway and I tried to be a good wife. Seeing him die like that, his final words telling me that he loved me…"

Tullius hugged her again, but she didn't start crying. "I'm sure Torygg's in Sovngarde, drinking mead and training to kick Ulfric's arse."

"I hope so too." Elisif sighed. "Here I planned to spend some time with you and I've gotten all weepy…"

"Nothing wrong with mourning the dead. Even Titus cried for Torygg."

"And more will cry because of Alduin and this Harkon and Miraak, whoever they are…" Elisif shook her head determinedly. "Let's just sit down, eat and hold each other for a while, please?"

"…Of course."

Later, Elisif having dozed off against him as they sat on the padded bench, Tullius sighed. The fate of the Empire was bound to Skyrim… and Stendarr forgive him, he was more worried about Skyrim than Cyrodiil now. What kind of General, would be-Emperor, did that make him?

_A man who's in love,_ the late Lia noted, approval in her voice. _Take care of Martin for me._

_ Tullius, protect the Empire. You're the only one I can count on. _Titus' weary voice echoed in his mind. _If a man must sacrifice a limb to save his life, he may weep and wail, but he will still do it._

Alone, the General allowed silent tears to run down his face. He couldn't save Cyrodiil. He may never see his birthplace again. But in Skyrim he at least had a place to stand and people to fight for – the reasons he'd joined the Imperial Legion in the first place.

_I won't fail either of you,_ he promised the courtesan who'd died protecting the Dragonborn and the Emperor he'd sacrificed for the Empire. _I will do my best to see the Empire whole._

He didn't know if anyone heard him, but it made him feel better to think they had.


	4. Fate, My Foe

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Sorry, had to rewrite this chapter a few times. As mentioned before, my head-canon is that Dibella, as the goddess of love and joy, and Molag Bal, who's pretty antithetical to that as the Daedric Prince of rape and domination, are mortal enemies. _Very _dark chapter with triggers of implied rape. Playing with the Dawnguard storyline because, to the best of my knowledge, there's no way to play a double agent.

…

**Fate, My Foe**

Castle Volkihar, 16th Sun's Dawn 4E 202

"I can't believe Lord Harkon squandered his precious Gift on that wretched ingrate," Vingalmo observed snidely to his lackey Stalf as they dined on a recalcitrant Nord who refused to accept his place as cattle. "Look at her, moping about and praying to Dibella when she has a grace greater than anything that cursed Aedra can offer: immortality itself!"

Ronthil, seated across from the newest member of the court, sighed into his cup of curdled blood. He'd tried everything to try and get his fellow newling interested in clan affairs from trading a favour to get a better class of thrall than he usually saw to tempt her appetite to telling her funny stories about his first few years here. All he received was a bleak gaze from gleaming eyes beneath her ragged hood and mumbled prayers to the Goddess of Love.

Lord Harkon, resplendent in his robes of imported Breton velvet, wandered into the feasting hall with his hands clasped behind his back. "Is she _still_ praying?" he asked of Orthjolf in exasperation.

The Nord vampire smirked in Ronthil's direction. "It seems our little Bosmer has been using too much of the carrot and not enough of the stick, my lord. Give her to me; once she is broken, she'll be moderately useful."

"No." Harkon's command was curt. "A Companion of Cyrodiil is too rare a prize to be wasted as a common lackey."

The Volkihar Lord walked over to the newling, ignoring Ronthil altogether despite Orthjolf's jibe, something which relieved the little Wood Elf vampire. Placing one hand beneath her chin, he raised her eyes to meet his so that her hood fell back, revealing a face worn thin with hunger and wretchedness. "I apologise, child, for leaving you to the court without guidance. As fond as I am of my clan, most of them simply don't have the refinement you're used to, and those who do are busy with their own affairs."

"Why?" she asked.

Harkon pursed his thin lips. "A fair question, I suppose. Part of it was as tribute to Our Lord Molag Bal; He relishes in the… ah… conversion of Dibellans. Part of it was my being impressed with you still being alive after the attack by Alduin. The rest of it, honestly, was a whim based on necessity. I need someone familiar with the Empire and Skyrim as it is, and your fine clothing indicated you were someone important."

Taloned fingers suddenly tightened around her jaw and throat, lightly piercing the skin. "You have two choices: be destroyed and go to Molag Bal in death or embrace your new life as one of the Volkihar. Dibella will not hear you now and there is no… cure… for the Gift."

What Orthjolf did with brutality and crudeness, Harkon performed with an artist's finesse. Ronthil felt sorry for her but better a little cruelty now than more later. The newling bowed her head submissively, much to the Volkihar Lord's satisfied smile.

"Excellent. Don more appropriate apparel and feed yourself properly. I have a series of tasks that requires intelligence and subtlety – and I can't spare the senior members of my court. You can meet me in my room."

He released the newling's throat, leaving pinpricks that trickled faded blood down to her collarbone, and turned away. The assembled court stared at the youngest member with a mixture of shock, exasperation and anger; Harkon had created the perfect environment for the strong to rise and the weak to die. If the newling was worthy, she'd survive. If not…

Ronthil sighed. He wasn't very strong and most of the court knew it. But he was happy being useful. If this woman was half as smart as Harkon claimed her to be, maybe she'd be a better mistress than Feran, who… well… expected Ronthil to serve him in _all_ things, whether the younger vampire wanted it or not.

He touched her right arm just above the elbow where the limb ended; even against the grey-bronze skin, the faintest remnants of a red tattoo remained. Golden eyes, still vaguely turquoise behind the glow, swung his way… and Ronthil shivered at the depths of damnation in that gaze. "You were the one who found me, gave me to Harkon?"

"I… Yes," Ronthil admitted, deciding that honesty was the best course of action. He hoped she wouldn't attack him or anything.

"Forgive me if I don't thank you," she finally responded, voice rusty from her constant praying.

"I, ah, understand," the Bosmer answered, hoping she didn't decide to hold a grudge. "I, ah, if you need anything, come to me. Anything to help a friend settle in."

"I will," she murmured before turning away to reach for a blood-filled cup. She probably needed to work her way up to feeding on the cattle, poor thing. Lord Harkon really should have seen to her before today.

Raising her cup in an ironic toast, the newling muttered, "Happy fucking birthday to me." Then she drank and threw the pewter cup into the fire with a sudden burst of anger. It was the most energy Ronthil had seen her display yet and despite her bitterness, he was relieved. He'd been angry too when his new life started. It was the first sign of acceptance.

_She'll be fine,_ he thought hopefully as she rose to leave. _She just needs to get out and use her Gift. That's all._

…

Northwatch Keep, 18th Sun's Dawn 4E 202

Using her 'Gift' was the last thing on Lia's mind as she skulked around the old fortress the Thalmor used to torture political prisoners. Harkon had essentially given her the freedom of Skyrim in the search for his errant daughter Serana, a Daughter of Coldharbour, to fulfil some damned prophecy. Lia would find her… but then she would kill her. Let Molag Bal's plans be ruined even if it meant torment for eternity. _If_ Harkon was right, then she was fucked anyway. Lia had that much integrity left despite the burning thirst haunting her every moment. She would at least stop Harkon if she could.

_If I'm damned, at least let me be useful. _If a vampire slaughtered Thalmor, then the Empire could legitimately claim they had nothing to do with it. Vingalmo's presence in Castle Volkihar had done more to raise her hackles than anything else; he spoke smugly of Thalmor contacts, of maintaining contact with his 'unGifted brethren'.

_He's a fucking Thalmor vampire. It could only get worse._ Ronthil, the Bosmer, had given her a lot of information since Harkon had jarred her from her self-pity. The pricks on her throat still hurt, but dignitas and a Nord's refusal to back down gave Lia enough strength to remain calm despite the pain.

_Harkon knows _what _I was, but he doesn't know _who_ I was. If he did, my unlife would be short and painful._ She couldn't stop their plans if she was dead.

…Well, _more_ dead than she was.

She considered assuming that vampire form Harkon's descendants had but decided against it. A one-armed vampire who flew like a drunken sparrow made for a poor enemy but an excellent target.

_Stealth and speed._ If Lia had any talents, they were in the Illusion school and the art of alchemy. She downed an Invisibility potion, thinking on the irony of being a living ingredient for one (that and cure disease potions, of all things) and took a running leap onto the back of Northwatch Keep, landing silently just behind some hapless guard. Her fangs shot out as she wrapped a taloned hand around the back of his neck, but something deep within warned her _no._ To drink was to be truly damned.

_And it's a form of rape._ Instead she snapped his neck with a loud crack, throwing his corpse into the next guard – who'd just realised she was there. It knocked the young Altmer woman down and off the wall into the sea.

It was like working her way through the defences in a spiral; she cleared the curtain wall and tower-top, then was about to drop behind the officious-looking guard just past the barricade on the front gate when someone… Shouted, _"ZUN HAAL VIIK!"_

The guard's half-drawn sword was ripped from his hand and for one wild moment Lia thought that Balgruuf was here and maybe he could save her somehow. He was alive. She knew that much. But he likely believed her dead. It was probably for the best everyone did.

So she stayed on the curtain wall as the Tongue passed beneath, accompanied by Farkas, and realised with both relief and despair it was Ulfric… clad in the segmented armour of the Blades. No, fate wouldn't be kind enough to give her a glimpse of the man she'd… fallen in love with. Lia stifled a whimper in her throat, wondering if she should just stay here until the dawn came and let Meridia's light destroy her.

The big Harbinger paused as Ulfric caught his breath, back tense. "I know you're up there, bloodsucker," he said grimly. "Now come down and fight with some honour if there's anything human left in you."

_Damn you, Farkas._ Lia knew the Agent of Kyne had likely smelt her. Wondering if a woman killed by a friend would go to Sovngarde, she dropped down, landing in a three-point crouch with her remaining hand balancing her. The two men spun around, shock painting their handsome Nord faces.

"If my life will make Skyrim safer, it's yours," she said bleakly as she rose to her feet with unnatural grace. "At least let me pass on some information to you before I die."

"You come from Castle Volkihar," Ulfric responded grimly, hand sliding down to the wazikashi on his belt. "I was warned by another vampire the court there is… dangerous."

Farkas' quicksilver eyes widened before narrowing to simmering anger. "Who did this an' why?" he demanded.

"As much as I'd like to go into an explanation, the Thalmor will soon realise they've got uninvited guests," Lia answered with a sad smile. "Kill me now or kill me after you've rescued Thorald, but either way, don't let the goldskins get you."

Ulfric inhaled sharply. _"Lia?"_

"In the flesh. Harkon found me under a pile of corpses, minus a hand and… I wasn't in any condition to object."

"Harkon. That is a black name indeed." Ulfric stroked his bearded chin. "The Thalmor and rescuing Thorald are our priorities. Let us deal with them and then discuss what happened."

For all of Ulfric's faults, a lack of practicality wasn't one of them. Lia nodded and fell behind the Stormcloak, knowing that he was to be the siege engine against this place. Farkas touched her shoulder gently, making her look up at him.

"If bein' a werewolf can be cured, Lia, reckon so can bein' a vampire."

That quiet, simple statement of faith would have made her wept if a vampire could shed tears. Instead she smiled sadly at him as they neared the door.

Then Ulfric unleashed Unrelenting Force and the Blades began their vengeance for Cloud Ruler Temple.

…

Thorald was in remarkably good shape for a man who'd been tortured, thanks to reckless use of every healing potion within the place and Lia's own knowledge of Restoration magic. The four now sat in Northwatch Keep's kitchen, the former prisoner (and friends) eating their heads off or mutilating Altmer corpses after stripping them of everything valuable. No one, not even Farkas, saw fit to chide them for it.

Ulfric had delivered a terse account of the events that followed Alduin's attack and Lia's gaunt face twisted with grief. "The Greybeards will use it to break him," the Tongue said grimly. "I am sorry, Lia, but if he doesn't have the will to resist Arngeir's methods then all we can hope is he survives to destroy Alduin."

"Helluva way of puttin' it, Ulfric," Farkas observed with a rare moment of sarcasm.

"None of us can afford illusion. The one woman who could stiffen his spine is a vampire. How much worse do you think that could be?" Ulfric's resonant baritone was flat. "The Greybeards call it meditation and fasting. It breaks a man into his component parts until he can find his true Dovahzul name. Elenwen used a similar method on me."

Lia raised her left hand beseechingly. It was horrible to see the woman who'd kicked Vilkas' balls to Sovngarde, the _Dawnbringer_, reduced to… a vampire. But Farkas meant what he said when he told her he was sure he could find a cure.

"We can't help him," the Harbinger admitted unhappily. "Irileth, the other person who could help him, is off to Solstheim because she thinks he's now High King and wants to let him settle in before throwing the combined might of the Dunmer an' the Nords at Alduin."

Ulfric blinked. _"That_ was why she left Skyrim, why all the greyskins left Windhelm?"

"Yup." Despite the turmoil, Farkas couldn't help but grin at the gobsmacked expression on the former Jarl's face.

Lia buried her face in her hand and gave a great shuddering sob. "I cannot help him," she admitted starkly. "It might be better if I walk into the sun. If he ever found out…"

"There may be another option," Ulfric observed softly. "The Dawnguard, a group of vampire hunters near Riften, have approached the Blades about an alliance of convenience."

"Yeah, that Durak spoke to the Companions too," Farkas confirmed. "Who'd'a thought the Foe-Reaper's pa would be kickin' vampire arse after losing the right to rule Half-Moon Hold?"

"You should alert your uncle Irkand to what happened," Ulfric continued. "He's implied a few times that Alduin's return opened doors of deepest darkness, things that the Night Mother fears."

"…I am not surprised he's with the fucking Dark Brotherhood," Lia finally observed, a shadow of her old wry despair in her voice. "I… Martin?"

"Tell Brynjolf. He can decide whether to tell the boy or not." Farkas sighed, leaning back and rolling his shoulders as Thorald continued eating. He'd discovered the identity of the kid post-Alduin; little smartarse needed a stint with the Companions to teach him right. It was rude to poke out your tongue at the Harbinger. Everyone knew that.

"I need to find a… woman… named Serana," Lia finally admitted. "Harkon – _Molag Bal_ – wants her for something big and bad."

"Definitely tell the Dawnguard then," Ulfric said firmly. "Isran is a… troublesome bastard… but Durak or Sorine might be reasonable enough to hear you out." He looked ready to say something else, but took one glance at Lia's stricken face and shut his mouth. Farkas wondered why.

"Fine." Lia gave another choking sob. "T-Tell Esbern I'm alive but… yeah. If I can take out Thalmor…"

"You help us all," Farkas told her gently. It wasn't right that so much crap had been dumped on one woman. But life never really was right. All you could do was muddle your way through and try to be honourable.

Thorald set aside his fifth bowl of stew and then promptly puked it up. He should've eaten slower but Farkas didn't tell him that. Some things needed to be learned from experience.

The Harbinger felt relief when Lia's nose wrinkled in that old familiar way and she got to her feet. "I… need to find a dark hole. I'll be gone at dusk," she finally said hastily. "Gods… be with you. Both of you. If… Balgruuf leaves High Hrothgar…"

"We will tell him," Farkas promised, much to Ulfric's exasperated sigh. He should have hit him harder in the stomach at the Moot because obviously not all of the arsehole had been knocked out. Poor Lia was hurting here and Ulfric was thinking about killing Thalmor and dragons and other things dangerous to the world!

_Since most of what I'm doin's the little stuff, I'll try an' find a cure for vampires,_ the Harbinger thought. Given that Lia had helped with the Glenmoril Coven, it was the least he owed her.

"Thank you," the one-handed woman said gratefully as she rose to her feet. Farkas thought her burgundy and black armour looked hideous on her, even with her gaunt, shrivelled face. She was a bright colours and sunlight person, not a bloodsucker.

"Got a question before you go," he called out to her as she turned away. When Lia looked over her shoulder at him, the Harbinger smiled. "What platter should I put this Harkon's head on?"

Despite the darkness, despite the despair, the Blade-turned-vampire managed to laugh. Farkas knew it was going to be okay. Because not all the blackness of the world could stand against a bit of hope and joy.


	5. Leap of Faith

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! I… kinda don't like either the Blades or the Greybeards. *rolls eyes* Delphine already got her comeuppance; now it's Arngeir's turn.

…

**Leap of Faith**

High Hrothgar, 18th Sun's Dawn 4E 202

"Who are you?"

For the past eighteen days Arngeir had come to him, asking that question, as his belly and mind emptied in the isolation and cold of the High Hrothgar courtyard. They'd allowed him the coarse grey homespun robes of a Greybeard at least, but nothing gave the Dragonborn surcease from the memories of the slaughter at Solitude.

_Sedinkoorven. Paarthunax._ The two names haunted him. For his pride, he'd focused on the Civil War over Alduin, and the World-Eater had ripped the Moot apart. The Grand Masters of both the Blades and the Greybeards had died believing in him. The name he'd taken in his arrogance, for all he'd renounced his Hold to his brother, had proven to be a mockery. Junseahrol, King of the Hill… King of a hill made from the corpses of the dead, perhaps. So many had died in Solitude he could build a new Dragonsreach from their bones.

Arngeir was correct. Junseahrol was who he _had been_, not who he _was_. But he was an absent father, a poor warrior, a Steward become Jarl. In the end, he really hadn't turned out to be a good Jarl either. Most of the dragons he'd fought hadn't even been killed by him; Lia and Irileth had done most of the work.

"Who am I?" he croaked. Snowberries and snowmelt were poor fare. "A failure."

The Master, who surely mourned Paarthunax more than anyone else, sighed. "Yes. You failed because you focused on your arrogance over your duty to Skyrim."

"Should I have allowed a civil war to continue when we all needed to be united against Alduin?" he retorted, finding a kernel of anger in the coldness of his grief.

"A truce had been struck by the Harbinger-"

"Who died." The Dragonborn's voice was flat. "I know I'm responsible for the deaths of hundreds… thousands! I have lost the woman I loved-"

"You barely knew the woman. I will honour the Grand Master for her death, but do not mistake lust for love." Arngeir's voice was severe. "I am given to understand that she was a courtesan. Such women know how to manipulate a man, Dragonborn. No doubt she thought she had the best of intentions, but she was guiding you towards power, not towards understanding."

_You never met her,_ the Dragonborn thought grimly. Lia had never concealed her status as a former prostitute; he recalled one night at Sky Haven Temple, where a drunken Uthgerd the Unbroken challenged her to prove a rumour that the Companions of Cyrodiil could bring a person to orgasm with their eyes. Turned out to be a combination of voice and eyes…

"I am focusing on Alduin now. What more do you want?" he demanded, rising to his feet. All meditation and hunger had brought him was a cold numbing peace. Now the anger was burning away his weakness… and bringing back the grief. Lia was dead. Paarthunax was dead. But… he could avenge them.

"I want you to understand why the choices you made were wrong," Arngeir responded quietly. "Your reckless use of the Voice, your giving into the dragon's urge for domination and power-"

The metal doors to the monastery slammed open, making both men turn in that direction. The sudden movement made the Dragonborn collapse as his body reminded him he hadn't eaten properly in… far too long.

Farkas, big and dark, stormed across the courtyard with the speed of a loping wolf to reach his side. "Looks like I showed up in time," he growled. "You're skinnier than Vilkas."

"Who are you?" Arngeir demanded.

"He is _Kaanigrohiikkendov_," the Dragonborn told the Master. "Kyne's Wolf Warrior."

"I got a dragon name?" Farkas asked, momentarily distracted. "That's great."

"…Harbinger." Arngeir's tone had turned downright frosty.

"Agent of Kyne," Farkas added as he literally hauled the Dragonborn up like a sack of potatoes. The sheer strength of the man was extraordinary, as was the gentleness of his grip. "Just remembered there was a Shout Kyne wanted Balgruuf to have. Oh, an' I got some news for him an' some dragon called Tayfunvahzah."

"Harbinger, you do not just storm into a sacred rite to… gossip!"

"No, I come and make sure a friend of mine is okay. Maybe the whole starvin' silence thing works for you guys, but he's the Dragonborn an' don't have the luxury to sit on his arse all day," Farkas retorted quietly. "Alduin kinda needs to die now, not next year."

The Harbinger's solid bulk was oddly reassuring. The man had eyed Lia a couple times in interest, but when she ignored him, had backed off. The thought of having someone who didn't seem to judge him for his faults made the Dragonborn start to cry: great, tearing sobs that ripped through his lungs and erupted into something resembling a Shout.

"The Dragonborn needs to meditate on what his mistakes-"

"We all made mistakes, Arngeir. You, me, Balgruuf, Lia, Irileth – we all fucked up. Now can you please go get Tayfunvahzah before I forget my respect for my elders an' lose my temper at seein' a friend like this?"

Arngeir's gaze was icy. "The Dragonborn will need to make the climb to the Throat of the World, Harbinger, as the final part of becoming a Greybeard."

"You're takin' vows? I don't want to be offensive, Balgruuf, but we really don't have the time for you to become a priest," Farkas muttered. "Besides, I got news about Lia."

The Dragonborn stared at him. It was strange to hear his mortal name after being called initiate for days on end… "She's dead," he whispered.

"Yeah, well, technically." Farkas scratched the back of her neck. "Turns out vampires paid a visit after Alduin came. Some guy named Harkon turned her into one. Lia says he wants to destroy the sun or somethin' so vampires can rule."

The Dragonborn… Balgruuf… fought for breath as the reality of everything crashed into his consciousness. Hunger, exhaustion and a dizzying amount of relief conspired to send him diving headfirst into the numbness of oblivion.

…

"Oops."  
Farkas grabbed Balgruuf as the poor bastard collapsed from shock. He'd wanted to reveal the news quietly, but Arngeir was sticking closer than a fly to a pile of crap, and now the chief Greybeard looked ashen. "Harkon… As in Harkon of Clan Volkihar? And the so-called Grand Master of the Blades is _serving him_-"

"She's lookin' for a cure," Farkas retorted. "Look, I don't wanta get into a fight. We need him downstairs. An' we need to know how to kill Alduin."

"And what if it is the will of the gods that the next world come into being?" Arngeir responded calmly.

"Uh, no. Balgruuf was born so it means Akatosh still likes us. Kyne picked me, so I guess she doesn't hate the world yet, an' She's the Mother of Men."

"I only have your word that you are the Agent of Kyne."

Farkas rolled his eyes. This guy was like a less strident Heimskr: stubborn with his head up his arse because of religion. Then he was reminded of a trick he and Vilkas used to pull on the priest in Whiterun when he started preaching… and he grinned.

Then he unleashed the Grah Graat, the Battle Cry, the gift of Kyne and Shor to all Nords. Imperials had their sweet tongues and Bretons could laugh off magic and Irileth summoned herself with fire and commanded dead and alive Dunmer (though he kinda got the feeling that was because she was Neverarine). But the Nords… Every Nord could Shout and bring his enemies to despair.

_Better not put the fact I made a Greybeard shit himself into the Chronicles of the Harbinger,_ he thought as he pulled Balgruuf into a lifesaver's carry over his shoulder. He hoped that Kyne's blessing to him, that wind and snow and animals couldn't hurt him, extended to… well… an absolutely insane stunt like he was about to pull.

He broke into a running jump and leaped off the mountain, landing with the grace of a goat (maybe a wobbly one) on a lower ledge. Then he looked down, then up, deciding which way to go.

_Arngeir said that Tayfunvahzah's upstairs, so…_ Swirling mists blocked the path, but Farkas didn't need a path. Not when he could leap from ledge to ledge on the side of the mountain like a goat.

Good thing Balgruuf was out cold because it would have been awkward otherwise. But eventually Farkas made it to a big clearing on top of the mountain as a little cream dragon sailed around and around before perching like an oversized bird on the cliff with the writing on it.

"Child of Kaan," greeted the dragon who had to be Tayfunvahzah. Paarthunax had been a big bastard, poor thing, but this little fellow looked built for speed and grace. "I am Tayfunvahzah."

"Nice to meet'cha. I'm… Kaanigrohiikkendov," Farkas replied, saying his dragon name slowly. It was great but kind of a mouthful.

If dragons could smirk, Tay would have. "A good name. My name means 'Tale Told True'."

"…You're a dragon bard? That is… wow." Farkas hoped he sounded impressed, because he was. He gently laid down the still unconscious Balgruuf and looked up at Tay. "Uh, sorry about making that old guy shit himself."

Yes, Tay was smirking. Definitely smirking. "Your Voice was greater than his. Do not be sorry."

The dragon leaped off the cliff and landed by Balgruuf. "I should have seen the Dragonborn weeks ago, but Arngeir said to wait. I trusted his judgment…"

"Arngeir wants him to be a Greybeard. We kind of need Alduin dead before he can become one."

"Geh, indeed." Tayfunvahzah sighed. "Paarthunax was second son of Akatosh and friend to the Nord Tongues. He was willing to die to save the world."

"Whereas you're a little bard who hides behind the bar when the big boys are fightin'," Farkas responded sympathetically. "But you're the guy who tells us where to go to find the blue glowy thing of destiny that will save the world. Or something like that."

"Something like that," Tay admitted honestly. "I joined Paarthunax because Alduin had begun devouring other dragons."

"Ouch." Farkas scratched his head. "Umm… We need to wake Balgruuf up an' I forgot smellin' salts-"

"I'm… awake…" Balgruuf slowly sat up, looking sick and gaunt. "I need…"

"Uh, can you breathe fire? I suck with magic an' he needs something to eat," Farkas asked Tay.

The dragon suddenly took to the air and dived into the clouds below. A few terrified bleats later, he returned, spitting out a couple dead goats and breathing fire on them. Farkas grinned at him. "Thanks."

Balgruuf wasn't stupid. Once wrapped in Farkas' bedroll by the corpse of a flaming goat, he ate slivers of cooled meat slowly, eyes burning blue as the sky above. The Harbinger told him everything he knew and how Lia was going to look for a cure and stuff. Tay looked upwards at some weird distortion of the air.

"Alduin was defeated here. Cast out by one of the Kelle… The Elder Scrolls. That is the Tiid Ahraan, the Time Wound…"

"I thought the Tongues used some kind of Shout-"

"Dragonrend. It grounded Alduin but did not kill him." Tay shuddered. "Maybe the Kelle would let you learn it, but I do not even want to _think_ about it."

"Dragonrend… was created with all the hate generations of Tongues living under Alduin's tyranny could muster…" Arngeir emerged from the mists, leaning on a staff. "To learn a Word is to absorb its meaning into yourself. Such hate, such fury…"

"Let me guess: you learned the Shout for condescendin' sits on his arse jerk," Farkas drawled. Then he felt guilty because he imagined Kodlak looking at him in disappointment.

Arngeir's face reddened as Tay growled in amusement. For an itty bitty scaredy-dragon, the dovah bard was a pretty cool guy. Farkas supposed he couldn't fault him for being scared of Alduin. At least he was helping out.

"If you're looking for an Elder Scroll, then Winterhold is the place to go," Arngeir continued flatly. "But you play with forces beyond your control, Harbinger."

"This from the guy who can't control his poopin'," Farkas retorted. It was petty, but this guy said bad things about his friends and made one starve himself by playing on his guilt.

"I have offered my advice, Harbinger. Do with it what you want." Arngeir looked pointedly at the silent Balgruuf. "Remember, Dragonborn, this is the only place where you will truly understand who you are."

The Dragonborn looked up, eyes cold. "I was meant to be a Steward but the gods made me a Jarl. I would have only accepted the job of High King because someone needed to make peace. Is it pride and ambition? Undoubtedly. I am a dovah – it is part of my soul. But it is the heart and mind of the man who guides my Thu'um and how it is used."

"That sounds like something Lia would say," Farkas observed.

"She has said similar things in the past, but it was Kodlak who told me that," Balgruuf murmured.

Farkas whined low in his throat. "I miss him."

"Me too. But we shall see him in Sovngarde." Balgruuf rose shakily to his feet with the Harbinger's help. A man should always be there to help his friends. "You have asked me these past few weeks who I am."

"I have indeed. It is part of the process of discovering your true Dovahzul name with Greybeard guidance." Arngeir had that grave stick up his arse look on the face again.

"Dragons name themselves. A Steward's first duty is to be the voice of his people to the Jarl. A Jarl's first duty is to protect his people. A High King must be both." Balgruuf's voice was steady albeit raspy. "I have made many mistakes. It might be I will face Alduin and die. The Moot may want a new High King. But you may call me Sahkren-Vahlok-Keizaal – Tongue Guardian Skyrim. Because I have power and it must be used. But I will use it in service to Skyrim… _as you bid me_."

Farkas thought his dragon name was more awesome. But Balgruuf's wasn't so bad. "Okay, now that's settled, can we go find an Elder Scroll? If I'm away from Jorrvaskr for too long, Vilkas gets bored and bad things happen."

"I thought your brother was the smart one?" Balgruuf asked, blinking.

"He is. He's smart enough to get into trouble. You should see your kids too. Lia said she'd tell Martin she was, uh, alive."

Balgruuf flinched at the mention of his three spawn – kids. Farkas didn't much like the Jarl's kids, but maybe they could learn to be less of brats if their dad Shouted at them a few times. Or fed them to a dragon. Either worked.

"Let's go," he said with a sigh. "Arngeir… Thank you for your guidance."

"Sky above, Voice within," the Greybeard responded severely. "You'll need to stay in High Hrothgar for the night-"

"Nope." Farkas grabbed Balgruuf as Tay watched interestedly. "Hey Balgruuf, wanna go flying?"

_"Are you fucking kidd- AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH!?"_

Farkas always did like jumping.


	6. Goddess of the Dunmer

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. An interesting little twist I'd thought I'd put into Irileth's titles… ;) Skaal Village sucks, so now it's Skaalheim. I've never played Dragonborn though I own it, so I'm using AU as my excuse for any discrepancies.

…

**Goddess of the Dunmer**

Tel Mithryn, 4th First Seed 4E 202

For a Dunmer mage who predated Tiber Septim's Empire, Neloth was a spry old thing. Good for him because the Nerevarine had turned the Black Books of Hermaeus Mora into projectiles that she flung with uncanny accuracy. It would be an even bet on who would be more offended: the mage or the Daedric Prince. Aranea Ienith suspected Irileth didn't give a damn.

Azura's Daughter had just returned from Apocrypha. The flame which burned within all Dunmer was purest in Twilight's Chosen, the scarlet of her eyes and hair the same hue of the Red Mountain, the colour of a fiery sunset. Morag Tong. Thieves' Guild. Nerevarine. Daughter of a Goddess. Huscarl. Godslayer and Dragon-Born.

"I, ah, take it you have discovered the source of the Voice of Azura?" Neloth asked dryly once the Nerevarine had run out of Books.

"I am not the Last Dragonborn!" the Dunmer woman hissed in reply.

"No, that particular… ah… honour belongs to your friend back in Skyrim. But Miraak has proven that more than one Dragonborn can exist at the same time. I am surprised, however, that you haven't absorbed any dragon souls."

Irileth looked ready to say something but instead developed that odd listening expression she developed whenever Azura spoke to her. Her scarlet eyes closed… and when they opened, all the hues of Twilight were therein.

_"Akatosh and I… have an understanding," _the Daedric Prince explained. _"Irileth _is _Dragonborn, like the human Alessia, but she cannot absorb dragon souls. In return, she has My Voice to command the Dunmer, living and dead, and the Aedra say nothing."_

Neloth looked disappointed. "And here I was hoping to run some tests on the Thu'um."

"Make a move towards Balgruuf and you're dead," Irileth said flatly, her eyes turning scarlet again. "I dedicated two decades of my life to protecting him."

The old mage nodded absently before yelling orders for his canis root tea. Aranea loathed the stuff, but it _did_ have stimulating effects. "It's interesting that you'd serve a… human," Neloth noted. "Don't suppose you'd tell me the story behind that?"

Irileth shrugged as she went to pick up the Books. As Azura's Daughter, she was immune to their influence. "I was being attacked by a dozen bandits in Whiterun Hold and the bastards had pinned me down. In came a scrawny adolescent, still in Greybeard robes, and two Whiterun guards to save me."

"I thought you were immortal," Neloth observed, eyes narrowing thoughtfully.

"I am. But Balgruuf didn't know that. So I chose to treat the life debt as it should be and serve him." Irileth smiled and accepted a cup of tea from a servant. "Before that, my only experience with Nords beyond trying to kill them was the Northstar of Cyrodiil. Trust me, Balgruuf is an infinitely better person."

Given that the Jarl of Whiterun had a laissez-faire approach to worship in his Hold so long as only peaceful rites were conducted, Aranea had to agree. She wondered how things were going in Skyrim; with the Civil War, news was sketchy, even if Balgruuf was supposedly becoming High King.

_At least Raven Rock is prosperous again,_ she thought. The local Nords weren't nearly as odious as the ones she'd known in Skyrim, mostly because they'd had access to civilised people, and hopefully trade would pick up soon.

Neloth sipped his tea thoughtfully. "I need some time to examine the Books," he finally said. "You should check with your friends in Raven Rock."

"If Azura hadn't assured me you weren't telepathic, I'd be suspicious," Irileth drawled. "But I will speak to the Skaal and the Nords of Thirsk Meadhall on the way back."

"Do that," Neloth answered, already deep in thought. He was a curmudgeon of the highest order, but _damned_ good at what he did. Probably why Irileth hadn't killed him yet.

Leaving without farewells, the two Dunmer returned to their mushroom home where a dusty lad waited for them. Aranea felt a chill – Tasran was from Raven Rock. But though she had to be worried, Irileth followed Nord rules of hospitality and let the boy sit down and wet his throat with canis root tea before telling him to speak.

His news was… grim. Alduin World-Eater had ripped through Solitude like Irileth through a pack of Reavers, killing and/or maiming several significant people. But on the upside, it seemed like the Civil War was over and Balgruuf getting around to dealing with the black dragon. Aranea decided not to point that out to Azura's Daughter as Irileth had a face twisted by volcanic fury. Yet she remained calm enough to dismiss Tasran to rest. That was a sign of how far the fiery Dunmer woman had grown.

"We finish Miraak now," she said tightly when the boy was gone. "Neloth can have his fucking Books. I am hoping that Storn Crag-Strider will be of more use."

"Solstheim isn't ready to send an army back to Skyrim," Aranea pointed out cautiously, knowing Irileth's ultimate game plan.

"In the end, the fight against Alduin will come down to four people in Sovngarde: Balgruuf, myself, Lia the Dawnbringer and Farkas the Harbinger. If I must return alone, I will do so."

Aranea surprised herself by scowling at the Nerevarine. "And what of Solstheim? You've dragged the Dunmer here out of a rut, given them hope they haven't had since the Red Year. Will you abandon them?"

"Adrano and Morvayn were running it long before I came," Irileth responded grimly. "If Alduin wins, then all of this is… pointless."

"Nothing is pointless, Irileth. And the Dunmer are still scared you'll do your running away trick again."

Irileth raised her scarlet eyes to Aranea. "Do you?"

"You tell me. I will follow you into the depths of Oblivion. But I don't know if you will stay with us. We've got a good life here…"

"We do indeed. And once this is over, I will come back." Irileth sighed, looking out the window. "Even when it is over, any peace we have is temporary. The Thalmor will come to dissolve the world as Alduin would."

"Alduin is an agent of destruction and rebirth," Aranea corrected, having spent considerable time in Neloth's library devouring anything she could about the Dragonborn. "The Thalmor want to dissolve existence altogether."

"That distinction is too fine for most people to care about." Irileth studied her well-muscled hands. "It is strange. The Altmer seek their old immortality, the Bosmer don't seem to care, the Orsimer have a similar attitude… and we have embraced our mortality. Is that strength or weakness, I wonder?"

"It is what it is." Aranea reached out to take the Nerevarine's hand. "The Good Daedra shaped us into a people to survive any trial and the Bad Daedra test us constantly to prove ourselves worthy. This is just another struggle."

"You have a way of putting things into perspective." Irileth squeezed Aranea's hand, smiling weakly. "It troubles me to leave Balgruuf alone, but my friend could use a little strengthening himself. The Aurelii woman has a talent for landing on her back… and even occasionally her feet. Her heart and loyalty are in the right place though, and she can speak a civilised language. Farkas the Harbinger doesn't care about anything except protecting Skyrim and Kyne has Her eye on him."

Aranea nodded, feeling a little relieved. "Then let's get some rest. The First Dragonborn needs to discover the folly of daring to provoke a Dunmer."

…

Skaalheim, First Seed 4E 202

"Father! What have you done! Go. My father sacrificed himself so that you could destroy Miraak and lift his master's shadow from the land. Go, then. Kill Miraak. Do not fail."

"I swear to you, Frea, I will strangle Hermaeus Mora with his own tentacles for the death of your father."

The new shaman of the Skaal nodded, tears flowing down her face as she arranged her father's body in a dignified manner. "I believe you, Moon and Star. You have kept every oath you've made so far."

Little secrets, gentle magics, had been Hermaeus Mora's price for the next step in fighting Miraak. The poor gentle shaman Storn had died with great courage. Irileth wished he could have met Balgruuf. If Skaal went to Sovngarde, then surely he would.

She and Aranea stayed for the funeral, the Dunmer women igniting the pyre with their own flaming auras. Teldryn Sero stood apart a little, her huscarl feeling helpless in the wake of such horrors. The Dunmer were a grim, dark people who appreciated the arts of cunning and betrayal, but Hermaeus Mora was vile by anyone's standards, and Irileth wondered if the House of Troubles should have a fifth corner.

For Storn's sacrifice, however, Irileth had dragon words for Balgruuf. There were a few tombs and Word Walls scattered around Solstheim and Aranea had copied every one of them for the Last Dragonborn. Her battle-brother would not be helpless in the face of Alduin.

"Does it bother you that you're Dragonborn and cannot absorb dragon souls or words?" Aranea asked during the funeral feast held for Storn later on.

Irileth looked out over the ash-covered snow of Solstheim… and shook her head. "No. I command the allegiance of all Dunmer, living and dead. I suspect that if I cannot absorb dragons' souls, they cannot devour me either."

_And Azura never fashions anything without giving long thought to it. Mother must have had a good reason for making me this sort of Dragonborn._

_ "I did, My Daughter,"_ the Lady of Twilight murmured softly. _"All fates are seen by Me, for all Hermaeus Mora fancies Himself the prince of fate."_

There was a hint there. Azura wanted her to figure it out. But Irileth was weary and heartsick; the fate of the Dunmer once again rested in her hands. But a promise made to a loved one, the expectation a friend had of her guarding his back and the needs of her people held her here.

Frea stood watch over her father's pyre; troubled, Irileth left the feast to join her. "The All-Maker moves in strange ways," the shaman murmured sadly. "Herma-Mora wins. In return, He will give you the power to defeat Miraak."

"I am sorry," Irileth apologised for the umpteenth time. "Your father's soul is surely in Sovngarde."

"Sovngarde…?" For the first time in forever, Irileth had met a Nord who didn't know about the Hall of Valour. She explained what it was and the shaman stared into the fire.

"My father has returned to the sky, Irileth. Herma-Mora took his magic but not his soul. One day a boy named Storn will be reborn to my people and I know my father will come home."

"So long as you remember him, he will find his way home," Irileth responded, feeling like she was offering a useless platitude. But the smile Frea gave her was heartbreakingly grateful.

"You're correct, Irileth…" Frea folded her arms to warm her hands. "I never expected one of the People of Ash to care about the fate of the Skaal."

"I spent many years in Skyrim," Irileth explained quietly. "I learned to think of Nords as people, not barbarians."

"And Miraak isn't the only threat to the world, is he?" Frea's eyes were sharp.

"No. Alduin World-Eater himself flies on ebon wings in Skyrim." Irileth paused and added, "Azura has hinted that his return may have opened the door for Miraak's rising."

"Ah." Frea sighed. "I have a word of advice, if I may, Skaal-friend?"

"Of course."

"As shaman of the Skaal, I am charged with the spiritual well-being of my people. While you are not of the Skaal, you are Skaal-friend, and so I give you this warning. Herma-Mora forced you to serve him in order to gain the knowledge to defeat Miraak. Do not let Him lure you further down that path. The All-Maker made you Dragonborn for a higher purpose. Do not forget that."

Irileth nodded slowly. _Good advice._ "Thank you, and I'll keep it in mind. Is… there anything you need?"

Frea shook her head sadly. "Only Miraak's death and the Tree Stone cleansed."

"I will see it done within the week."

"Walk with the All-Maker, Skaal-friend." Frea turned her back to Irileth in clear dismissal. She may have reluctantly accepted the necessity of everything that had happened, but it would be hard for her.

_I'll need to include her on the Council,_ I rileth mused. A strong woman, a good one.

But first she had the First Dragonborn to defeat.

…

Apocrypha

Irileth thought she knew how to hate. But facing off against Miraak, hearing the gloating voice of Hermaeus Mora, taught her a whole new level of loathing. Instead of the fiery rage of an angered Dunmer or the sullen grudge-holding of one with patience, she felt a soul-deep revulsion at the way the Daedric Prince so casually abandoned his people.

The First Dragonborn had a seductive Voice and mighty Shouts; Irileth had speed, centuries' more battle experience and a grudge. "You're not what I expected, Last One," the Dragon-Priest observed as he hovered above her, gesturing with that vile staff to produce more tentacles. "You don't Shout, you're a Dunmer…"

_He thinks I am Alduin's Bane!_ Oh, bless the man for being a fool. "You're befouling my home. I am the Nerevarine, Child of Azura. You are _nothing_ compared to the beings I have slain. I don't need to Shout; you're not worth my Voice."

She dodged the tentacles, concealing her weariness. She had come here alone to fight the Dragonborn, not wanting to risk Aranea. "I have slain _gods._ Surrender, Miraak, and maybe you'll avoid the fate Hermaeus Mora would give you."

Miraak laughed. "Surrender, on the cusp of victory? I think not!"

And Irileth was impaled on a tentacle from his staff. Her daggers fell from nerveless fingers as she tried to speak, but her breath was stolen, her vision fading. Miraak hovered closer, voice rich with smug satisfaction.

"I will absorb your soul and knowledge. I will destroy Alduin, if it makes you feel better, and make this world my own."

_"Dragonborn." _Herma-Mora's seductive voice murmured in her dying brain. _"Surrender to My will, and I will destroy Miraak."_

It was tempting. But she thought of the casual way the monster discarded people. Even Sheogorath in the guise of the Madgoddess was more loyal than that. But something Azura told her tickled her memory.

_"All fates are seen by Me, for all Hermaeus Mora fancies Himself the prince of fate."_

Hermaeus Mora hoarded secrets because he didn't know everything, a fact that galled him. Only Azura and perhaps Akatosh held the knowledge of the future, where Mora was bound to knowing only the past and some of the present. _Mora_ thought she was also the Last Dragonborn because Miraak did.

_"Mother!"_ Irileth cried out. _"Boethiah. Mephala!"_

The three Good Daedra of the Dunmer. Irileth wore the Ebony Mail, carried the Ebony Blade and of course had Azura's Star. She was Their Champion… and that of the Dunmer themselves.

_"Tell him you will surrender,"_ Mephala suggested silkily. _"That will open a spiritual channel between you two."_

With little choice but to obey the Prince of Lies, Irileth obeyed, and felt something claw into her very soul. _"Oh my,"_ Hermaeus Mora murmured. _"All the little secrets you hold-"_

The Voice of Azura was the ability to command all Dunmer, living and dead. That much was known to Morrowind. But the Lady of Twilight had given Her Daughter a command… which was a Shout.

_"Sahqo Strunmah Praad!"_

The Red Mountain. Blessing and bane of the Dunmer. It shaped them, destroyed them… and made them stronger.

In this place where thought was reality, the volcano was the spiritual essence of the Dunmer as a people.

_"Red Mountain Awake!"_

Miraak sought to be a tyrant. Boethiah, prince of deceit against authority, demonstrated the folly of daring to try and rule a Dunmer. Hermaeus Mora offered truth, albeit slanted; Mephala repaid him with a lie through the lips of a Dunmer. And of course, Azura saw it all coming eons ago.

Irileth became nothing more than a channel for the force of the Dunmer; she realised that the Voice of Azura was in reality the Voice of the Dunmer. For too long her people had fled and hidden despite proclaiming they endured. Solstheim and Skyrim, places of ash and sky and snow, had taught them otherwise.

She was a channel for the Good Daedra too, able to see into Their minds as they could see into hers. And her peek into Mephala's, the Webspinner's plan for Balgruuf's family before she'd taken the Ebony Blade from Dragonsreach, infuriated Irileth beyond description. In this moment of power, of decision, she called forth the spiritual essence of the Ebony Blade… and drove it into Mephala's very soul.

Two Daedric Princes screamed: Hermaeus Mora as a red fury burned him, Mephala as her power was sundered in twain. The prince of fate and knowledge retreated from Irileth hastily, dragging another tentacle around Miraak and taking the First Dragonborn's power from him with one brutal rip. The Webspinner faded into a shadow of herself, the Ebony Blade draining its former mistress and strengthening Irileth.

_"You made the Dunmer what they are with your lies,"_ Azura told the prince of lies flatly. _"But in those lies, they found their truth."_

_ "You overstepped your authority and trusted in your ability to manipulate others,"_ Boethiah observed smugly. _"Too bad Irileth is more real than you."_

Mephala fled into Oblivion. Irileth didn't know what would become of her. And she didn't care, because she saw with different eyes.

The Dunmer, bound to the world and loving every minute of it in their dour grim way. Dark and cruel, but rarely just for kicks, they strengthened everyone they dealt with. Foresight, cunning and deception to make a people whole, not for petty goals.

_"I am not petty!"_ Boethiah protested.

_"Shut up,"_ Irileth told the Prince of Rebels.

_"Great idea, Azura,"_ the Daedra muttered. _"Let's make her a Prince. Now she's insufferable and giving me orders!"_

_ "Get over it, Boethiah,"_ Azura responded smugly. _"Mephala got her just desserts for screwing our people over."_

_ "You're fine," _Irileth assured Boethiah. _"You strengthen Our people. Just don't expect me to do what you want me to."_

She was tired of Apocrypha and thought of _home._ Much to her surprise, she found herself in front of Severin Manor, a stunned Rendar, Aranea and Teldryn staring at her. "It's done," she muttered, before collapsing.

The next day they started building Her first shrine despite Her protests. Azura, if nothing else, always got Her way.


	7. Find Your Voice

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! I am totally screwing around with Dawnguard canon to make things more… interesting. Because I can. And I like to add to Lia's subscriptions.

Age note: Elisif is about twenty, Lia is in her mid-twenties, Farkas in his late twenties, Balgruuf in his late thirties, Ulfric and Rikke in their early forties, Galmar, Irkand, Isran, Hrafn the Foe-Reaper and Tullius in their early fifties, and Durak in his early sixties.

…

**Find Your Voice**

Fort Dawnguard, 28th First Seed 4E 202

The Redguard warrior, bald and middle-aged but still strong, blocked the downward stroke of an orichalcum axe with the haft of his weapon. His opponent was a grizzled Orc, one whose eyes were almost human and the most astonishing gold-washed turquoise in colour, who still fought with vigour despite being an unseated chief. Both men had known each other for years, even before the Vigil of Stendarr, even before the Great War.

Once, the Orc would have happily slaughtered the Redguard for his insults to his Hold and family. But time and rumours of a vampire prophecy tended to bury a lot of hatchets – and whatever faults the man who called himself Isran had, the Great War had taught him much about being a proper leader.

The arbiter of their duel – they were allies, but not friends, and neither would back down even in a sparring match – was a Nord with a pronounced underbite carrying a fearsome orichalcum Akaviri war-scythe. Though not a member of the Dawnguard, he was a valuable ally who provided a lot of raw materials. Hrafn the Foe-Reaper, would-be Jarl of Half-Moon Hold, always stuck by family.

Durak, his father, lost the duel when Isran swept his naginata under the Orc's feet and made him land on his back. Breathless, Durak raised his axe in surrender. Malacath had removed His blessing years ago when Hrafn became Chief, so there was no shame in quitting. He could still fight; a good death could wait until the Volkihar Clan was destroyed.

"You're a sonuvabitch, Isran, but you can still fight," Hrafn drawled, his easygoing tone leading others to underestimate him. As his brothers had, when their mostly-Nord brother killed or exiled them to become Chief. Malacath was pleased with him.

"If it wasn't the vampires, I could always count on the Thalmor to keep me in shape," Isran responded, resting his naginata like a yoke across the shoulders.

Durak still sometimes wished the man had the decency to die at Cloud Ruler instead of fleeing to Hammerfell and joining the Vigil. But if he hadn't, the Dawnguard wouldn't exist, and humanity would be unprotected from both dragons _and_ vampires. Life always served a bitter drink.

Not trusting himself to speak, the old Orc looked over the secluded canyon in which the Fort was hidden. It was close to sunset, the sky blazing scarlet and gold through scudding spring clouds, and the earth was greening again. Durak inhaled the Bruma Wind appreciatively, drinking in the scents of good soil and wildflowers, and peered down at two figures below. "Isran," he said softly. "We've got company."

Hrafn, always a sharp-eyed lad, moved to the fence that surrounded the front part of the fortress gatehouse and looked down. "Nords," he said curtly. "One's wearing a hood."

"Vampire?" Some of the Volkihar could move around in the later part of the day if they were hooded.

"Ma-ay-be. Be good to see though, because if they got that far, they passed several people and they're coming openly."

Isran frowned but said nothing. Two of the Dawnguard – Tilde and Vori – had been garden-variety vampires who'd found a cure with the priest of Tu'whacca in Morthal. This potential vampire could be the same.

The trio held onto their weapons as the two newcomers approached; one was a bulky youth who screamed 'farm boy' while the other was short and light for a Nord, one-armed too beneath the robe. Her eyes were golden like the Volkihar, but there was something familiar in the lines of her face…

"Agmaer," Durak sighed, recognising the boy. "Do you know how to use the eyes the gods gave you?"

"Err, yes," the farm boy responded uncertainly. Durak had found him in Whiterun, eager for glory, and figured he'd make great cannon fodder if nothing else.

"Then explain to me how you've managed to walk a mile or two beside a Volkihar vampire and _not_ notice?"

Agmaer's face went slack with shock as the vampire lowered her hood in unison with the setting of the sun.

"A use of Illusion," she admitted easily, hand held outstretched and open to show no spell cast or weapon at the ready. Her voice was rich and deep, achingly familiar, but her accent was pure Colovian noble.

"You expect us to treat a vampire who comes in disguise as a friend?" Isran demanded, stepping forward and readying his naginata. The vampire's eyes fastened on that weapon and her expression went from conciliatory to sick.

"Of all the pranks the gods would play, this would have to be the one that takes the cake. Rustem fucking Aurelius leading the Dawnguard."

She walked closer, unafraid of the crossbows trained on her, and with a grim realisation Durak saw her slanted eyes. "I'm here to warn you about the Prophecy of the Tyranny of the Sun, then I will leave for Morthal. I'd hoped to work with the Dawnguard… but well, I don't think I could resist the urge to vomit every time I saw you."

"If you think you're going to just walk away, _vampire_, you're wrong." Isran's voice had hardened. Durak knew a fight was coming; several of the Dawnguard recruits muttered amongst themselves, wondering why their leader had been called Rustem. One or two older ones were obviously trying to place the name…

"Hear her out," Hrafn said softly but urgently. "Even one-armed, she could have taken Farm Boy out there without breaking a sweat and killed our canyon guards with magic. Besides, I think I know who this woman is… and her becoming a vampire was a very recent development, and likely against her will."

"…Foe-Reaper." The woman's voice was… mixed. Chagrin, respect and concern in one word. "This, ah, wasn't how I'd hoped to meet you."

"That vampire knows who I was. Who's to say she won't sell that information to the Thalmor-"

"Because, you dumbass, she's a fucking Blade," Hrafn interrupted disgustedly. "More to the point, she's the current Grand Master."

He rested his war-scythe against the fence as Isran spluttered. "It's good to see you're still… ah… kickin' about, Lia. But you should have gone to Falion first and gotten yourself cured before coming here."

The vampire's gaze was bleak. "I can't. Not yet."

"Why the hell not?"

"Because you're going to need someone to run interference in Harkon's castle. The place is like a bloodstained Imperial Court and I could handle that shit in my sleep."

"Lia. Grand Master Lia – oh Malacath's furies." Durak finally realised who the vampire was and why she was so sick on seeing Rustem.

She was Sigdrifa's daughter.

…

Of all the things Lia expected, she never would have guessed in an Age that it would be her Norc relatives who were the most sympathetic to her plan and plight. Hrafn, an easygoing man as canny as he was ugly, brought a goat for her to drain while Durak, who was apparently her grandfather, argued with Isran (she couldn't think of him as Rustem), Sorine and Gunmar about her. The other Dawnguard, confused, milled around or focused on their duties grimly.

Except for one: Celann, a handsome Breton with the look of High Rock about him, approached fearlessly with his hand outstretched. Lia took it with a brief clasp, surprised at how warm he felt. She had to throttle the urge to drain that warmth from him… She was so damned cold.

"Mind telling me about this Tyranny of the Sun business?" he asked.

"Succinctly, Harkon and Molag Bal want Serana, a Daughter of Coldharbour, to kill the sun," Lia responded. "It's probably more complex than that, but Harkon sent me out to find her. I have yet to decide if I will kill her when I do or find out what she thinks about the whole matter first."

Celann nodded thoughtfully, sitting down by the fire. "Have you drained a man dry or taken the Vampire Lord form?"

"No." Lia sighed, gesturing to her empty sleeve. "That would have regenerated, otherwise."

"Indeed. Isran should have realised it." Celann shook his head. "I know you think playing double agent is a good idea, Lady Lia, but with every day that passes the vampiric thirst will grow. If you fall prey to it…"

"Molag Bal will own me."

"Yes." Celann clasped his hands. "You said you practice the School of Illusion?"

"I'm… okay at it. Nothing to write home about. It's just what a Khajiit Agent of Dibella taught me."

"Ri'Myrrh? Do you know how the old cat is?"

"Are you Dibellan?"

"No, but my mother was. A vampire hunter too, no less." Celann shrugged, leather creaking. "If I were you, I'd get myself cured and then take yourself to Mother Hamal in Markarth. I know that the priestesses of the Lady of Joy have their own tricks for dealing with vampires… and you could use the help too."

_If I'm human again, I could maybe speak to Meridia again._ Lia didn't know if the Daedra would forgive her being turned into a vampire, but hopefully she'd get on board to kill the undead. And fuck what her father – _Isran_ – said.

"We will still need a double agent in the court," she said slowly. "They will smell me as a mortal, no doubt."

Celann snickered. "Hamal is the finest teacher of Illusion spells in Skyrim. If she doesn't know a spell that can disguise a mortal as a vampire, then I'm a berserker."

_It's been too long since I was at temple…_ Tempting, so very tempting. She wanted to be warm again, to be-

"Will I be allowed to walk away?" she asked softly. "My fath- Isran is spoiling to kill me. No surprise there, he's wanted to do it since I was a kid."

Celann's expression turned as sick as Lia's gut. "I don't understand."

"That man was Rustem Aurelius, Grand Master of the Blades, and I was an initiate found wanting at the age of five," Lia observed sardonically. "He, his lover and my mother wanted me… ah… culled. Or so I am told."

"Who told you?" Hrafn asked, eyes narrowed.

"Dar'saad, the Fifth Blade, Uncle Irkand, the former Third Blade, and Esbern the Fourth Blade," Lia promptly replied. "I… don't remember anything before the Siege of Cloud Ruler… and spent the two years after it quite frankly insane."

Hrafn nodded grimly as Celann studied his hands in an awkward silence. In the background, Durak and Gunmar were yelling at Isran. "It would have been your mother's idea, if the timing you've implied is correct. The Code of Malacath allows the killing of the weak to save the strong in times of crisis and… well, for all Sigdrifa served Talos, she was still a Norc to the toenails."

Lia swallowed, wishing a vampire could cry. "It would have been nice if my father spoke up for me though."

"Can't blame you for feeling that way." Hrafn reached over and patted her knee. "Get your backside to Morthal and then come spend some time with us at Half-Moon. Would do you some good to learn about your Norc heritage."

"…I used rude words when I found out I was part-Orc," Lia confessed ashamedly.

"Not to be offensive, Hrafn, but that's a legitimate response if you weren't raised in Half-Moon Hold," Celann drawled, his voice touched with humour as the Foe-Reaper frowned.

"I won't lie, Lia. A mostly Nord Half-Moon woman would be a preferable marriage candidate for the Jarls since Balgruuf's a bit tetchy about his daughter meeting one of my boys," the Norc admitted with a sigh. "I'm assuming you're presentable by Nord standards?"

Celann grinned. "I heard there are already rumours about her and a particular ex-Jarl turned Dragonborn."

Lia scowled at the Breton as Hrafn brightened. "Can we please worry about Harkon and Alduin before anyone starts matchmaking?"

"-She is my fucking granddaughter, you Ra Gada piece of shit! If you're so fucking worried about her allegiances, I'll dispatch Celann with her. They seem to be getting along just fine and the man is able to shake off Illusion spells with his ancestry."

Durak's roar made Lia start and a low whine escape her throat. _What does it say about my family that the Listener and the Norcs are the only ones who care about me?_

She didn't realise she'd said it aloud until silence fell over everyone in earshot. Isran, his still-handsome face livid with rage, stalked over to stand over her. "You should have died at Cloud Ruler, you fucking abomination of nature!" he snarled. "You don't even know _what_ you are: you've got none of the gifts the Aedra gave the races of men and mer, your blood is so mixed."

Something wild and dark, a cold fury, surged through Lia's veins. In the Empire they'd mocked her for being a Nord. Now her own father despised her for being a mix-blood. It was so tempting to rip out the thick vein in his throat, to taste the sweet crimson river-

_Your father isn't worth your soul._ Slowly, with every bit of discipline learned as a Companion, a Blade and a member of the Emperor's Court, she strangled down her urge to kill and instead whispered, "At least I didn't run at Cloud Ruler."

Suddenly Isran's naginata was in his hands, descending towards Lia's head-

But she shouted, a wordless howl of rage, and the Redguard dropped his weapon. Its broad blade sliced a shallow gash across her shoulder as Durak pulled Isran back, eyes so much like her own blazing in an Orc's berserker fury.

"Celann, take the girl and leave, and don't come back until she is cured. Maybe then Isran will listen to reason."

The Breton nodded, rising to his feet and offering Lia a hand to stand. She accepted it, enjoying the warmth once more even as blood seeped from her shoulder wound. Her throat was raw from the shout… or was it a Shout? She wasn't sure.

"I'll coordinate with the Blades too. Esbern agrees there's a mutual interest and they're better situated than us to keep an eye on the Volkihar," Celann told Durak.

"Good idea. Bringing their Grand Master back will make them like us too," Durak growled. "Now you'd better go, I can't hold back this idiot forever."

Lia glared at her father, feeling more alive than she had since Solitude. Why was it that every bit of her past had to show up in Skyrim?

_Because Skyrim's the last relatively free land in Tamriel,_ she realised. _And because Akatosh is a sick bastard._

But at least someone had listened to her, trusted her enough to get the job begun… Even if it was her Orc grandpa.

At least as a Nord, she'd found her voice. She had heard legends of the Nords using battle cries to unnerve the enemy, but assumed it was a Shout… or just the wave of giant people swinging sharp objects heading in the opposing army's direction that scared people. But no, it was an actual… gift.

She will still need to find a way to play Harkon. They needed a double agent and she was the best one available.

_I'd better start brushing up on my Illusion spells then…_


	8. Basest Sentimentality

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! Yes, the title comes from Loki's conversation with Black Widow in the Avengers. Monkeying around with who has what Elder Scroll for storyline purposes.

Age note: correction, Durak is in his late seventies.

…

**Basest Sentimentality**

Dragonsreach, 1st Rain's Hand, 4E 202

Hrongar sat easily in the throne of the Jarl even if the gilded wood creaked its protest beneath the weight of Nordic quicksilver armour. Nelkir, still moody but a trifle more sociable, had his nose in a book of spells under Farengar's eye; Dagny, threatening to become a beautiful woman, was discussing some herb with Priestess Danica; Frothar, now a sturdy boy, was fletching arrows clumsily under the stern eye of Anoriath the Bosmer hunter. Clad in his dusty, travel-stained Greybeards robe, Balgruuf was practically invisible as another mendicant accompanied by Farkas in his Circle armour. A female one, robed in rusty black, was sitting quietly to the side with a handsome Breton in strange quilted armour. It was strange to be ignored… but it allowed him to observe the court of Whiterun in a way he'd never done before.

_In my arrogance, I thought life would be irrevocably changed by my leaving,_ he brooded. _But my children are better behaved now than they were when I gave them whatever they wanted. Are they better off without me?_

It was Audience Day, a time less formal than a Holdthing but more so than a private meeting; a vaguely familiar Nord trader with Breton colouring sat near the black-robed priestess, his Imperial apprentice keeping his nose tucked in a book. Hrafn Half-Moon and two of his boys were seated at the high table already, his famous scythe left at the door, and some Ra Gada man with his Nord bride and what had to be an adopted Breton child arrived. Everyone ignored each other, so intent on their personal business.

Proventus, a little greyer and more harried, stepped forward and banged the butt of his ceremonial staff against the floor. "The Jarl will receive you in order of rank," he announced. "My Lord Hrafn?"

Hrafn, the ugliest son of a bitch this side of Sovngarde, arose as his two boys – a burly Orc in orichalcum armour and a veritable dandy of one in fine silk – joined him. Dagny looked up from her conversation and gawked, indicating Balgruuf had been lacking in teaching the manners appropriate to a Jarl's daughter; the Foe-Reaper grinned and winked, making his daughter blush.

"Little young for you," Hrongar drawled dryly.

"Four wives is enough for a man," Hrafn chuckled in reply. "Thought I would introduce my current heir Arakh and my other son Oleg."

_He's still riding that horse,_ Balgruuf thought, straightening up. If Hrongar sold his daughter like chattel, brother or not he'd be Shouted from the Great Porch.

"Welcome," Hrongar said, ignoring Proventus' urgent signals to shut up. "Dagny's nearly thirteen, boys, and she's due to foster with Elisif. Not my idea, but Balgruuf insisted on it before he stepped down, and I'd rather not piss him off if he becomes High King."

Arakh grunted. "Old enough to bleed, old enough to breed," he observed curtly. "Looks a bit fragile though. Too weak."

"Thank Mara for that," Dagny retorted. "I pity your Hold if you become Jarl."

"Should beat her more so she behaves," Arakh continued as Oleg, a lighter Orc with almost human features, cringed and looked apologetically at Dagny.

"Boy, you aren't Jarl yet, so don't tell Hrongar how to handle his niece," Hrafn chided mildly.

"I will be soon," Arakh told his father challengingly.

"Not if one of your brothers outwits you. Note I said 'current heir'." Hrafn's smile was friendly, easy and honest… but Arakh shrank back from the expression like he was looking a vampire in the face. "Oleg's due to study at the Bard's College in Solitude. I ain't making suggestions, Hrongar, I'm just asking for one of my boys to be considered. I've got enough of them that Lady Dagny can have her pick."

If Oleg was more Nord than Orc, Balgruuf would readily agree. But he was honest enough to accept that the idea of some green-skinned savage with tusks kissing his daughter churned his gut. But if Dagny actually liked the boy-

"Lady Dagny will have her pick of men in Skyrim," Oleg said, his voice the rasp of velvet over stone. The Norc had beautiful enunciation, his black hair neatly braided into a club at the nape of his neck but his head shaved at the sides. At least he wasn't Lurbuk. "I have a feeling, Pa, I'll be low on the list."

"I can tell you now you're higher on the list than your brother," Dagny observed coolly. "But that's not hard. _Brenuin_ is higher on the list than Arakh."

"After that little comment, I'd argue _Harkon_ is higher on the list than Arakh," muttered the armoured Breton to his priestess companion. Farkas, who was shaking his head at the heir to Half-Moon's attitude, snickered.

Hrafn smirked smugly. Given that the man was a fine politician when it suited him, Balgruuf wouldn't put it past the Foe-Reaper to have arranged things so that Dagny found Oleg preferable to Arakh. "Oh, I got news too. There's a vampire lord wanting to end the world."

"He'll need to get in line behind Alduin," Proventus muttered.

"Speaking of which, heard from your brother?" the Norc asked Hrongar directly.

The Jarl of Whiterun shook his head as the children looked up. "Balgruuf hasn't returned from High Hrothgar yet."

The female priestess sucked in a sharp breath, leaning forward intently. Even the Nord trader and his Imperial apprentice looked curious.

"Look, what happened in Solitude was literally hell, but we don't have time for him to sit on his ass," Hrafn said. "If I need to, I'll go up there and drag him down myself."

Balgruuf glanced at Farkas, who shrugged. No help there. And he had to reveal himself anyway…

He stood up and lowered the grey hood of his robe. "Farkas beat you to it," he told the Foe-Reaper.

"Daddy!" Much to his surprise, Balgruuf found himself mobbed by all three children, knocked down when Frothar tackled him. "We're so sorry!"

"What for, Dagny?" he asked, lifting Frothar off him so he could embrace his tall daughter.

"Fianna told us you died because we were brats," she responded, eyes pleading. "We're sorry."

Balgruuf shuddered. "I'm sorry for leaving you. But if they'd known I was Dragonborn-"

"Tullius _and_ Ulfric would have marched on Whiterun to force you to make a choice," Nelkir finished grimly. "Farengar told me you were alive but told me why it had to stay secret."

"The boy has a fine mind. Your tutor was inadequate to teach him, hence his… ah…"

"Being a rude little shit?" Hrongar finished, descending from his throne. It was strange to think of it as _Hrongar's_ throne… but it felt right.

"Does this mean no more business will be conducted today?" the Nord trader asked with a pronounced Reach accent.

"Look on the bright side, Brynjolf," a familiar voice, rich and beautiful, drawled as the priestess lowered her hood to reveal a gaunt, golden-eyed version of Lia. "I'm sure we'll be all so busy catching up you'll have plenty of time to help yourself to small valuable items."

"Lass, you wound me!" the Thieves' Guildmaster protested as Farkas grinned. "I was here on legitimate business today!"

"Really, we were," said his Imperial apprentice with all the sincerity of Frothar stealing Dagny's sweet rolls.

"Martin Aurelius, don't lie to your mother," Lia retorted.

The boy sighed, scuffing his boot on the floorboards. "Yes, Mama…"

"You're a thief and your mum's a priestess?" Frothar asked curiously, forgetting all about his father in the wake of something new. "How does that work?"

"Evil men kidnapped me and the Thieves' Guild saved me," Martin answered. Looking at the boy, Balgruuf could now see the resemblance between him and Lia. "So I'm going to be a thief and steal my inheritance from the evil man who took it."

Frothar's eyes were wide as Lia sighed, shaking her head. "That… is… awesome! Can I join you?"

"You'll need to be a lot less clumsy first," Dagny noted critically.

"Hah! At least I'm not going to marry a Norc!" Frothar shot back.

"At least Oleg smells better than you!"

"Thanks, I think," the Norc bard observed dryly in the background.

Balgruuf sighed, keeping an arm around Dagny and Nelkir. "Dagny will marry whoever she pleases, Frothar. Dagny, don't tell your brother he smells."

"Stinks," Lia corrected softly. "He stinks, but you smell."

"Not helping here, woman," Balgruuf told her, trying to process that she was standing in front of him… well, standing in front of him. She could hardly be called alive as a vampire.

She tried to smile, the expression failing. "You don't seem shocked. Farkas told you then."

"Yeah, sorry, Lia," the Harbinger said, not sorry at all. "Figured he needed to know because we need him here, not on a mountain."

"You see clearer than most," the vampire murmured as her companion coughed awkwardly.

"Celann of the Dawnguard," he introduced, holding out a hand. The Breton was handsome but ridiculously short compared to Lia. "Hrafn and I are taking her to Morthal to be cured."

"…I'm coming with you," he said. "I could use Idgrod's advice again."

"We're trying to find an Elder Scroll," Farkas added cheerfully. "Balgruuf needs one to learn some Shout called Dragonrend. It beat Alduin."

Balgruuf remembered to shake the Breton's hand, narrowing his eyes until Lia rolled hers. "Celann will kill me if I refuse the cure," she said softly. "You've nothing to fear."

"I lost you once. I'll not do it again." He dropped Celann's hand like a hot rock and took her remaining one, trying to warm it.

"I think we're going to be brothers," Martin told Frothar.

Nelkir rolled his eyes and Dagny looked confused. "Can priestesses marry?" she asked.

"Mum's a vampire. But it's temporary. And some guy named Harkon is going to be very dead when Uncle Irkand finds out," Martin assured her cheerfully. "He's the Listener of the Dark Brotherhood."

"That means he killed your father, boy," Hrongar said flatly. It seemed his little brother had kept up to date with the news.

Martin nodded, looking sad. "Yeah, I know. But Sithis gives the Dark Brotherhood the ability to kill anyone, but they have to kill if asked by anyone. Kinda like the Grey-Manes' smithing stuff or the Ravencrones' seer-stuff."

Hrongar grunted and muttered something about not understanding Imperials.

"Thank you for giving me the name of someone who needs to die, my dear boy," drawled the Ra Gada that everyone had forgotten from the side of the door.

"I knew you were already there," Martin said cheekily.

"So your uncle's a member of the Dark Brotherhood?" Frothar asked, his voice awed. "That… is… awesome!"

"Your youngest is either easily impressed or a little wrong in the head," Lia murmured into Balgruuf's ear.

"Both," he admitted softly. "Lia…"

She stepped away from him. "The thirst gets harder to resist every day. The craving for warmth…"

"I'm impressed with your willpower," the Breton child noted; Balgruuf uneasily realised her eyes were the same gold as Lia's.

"I have a lot to stay human for," Lia responded with a sigh.

Celann, for a man belonging to an order dedicated to killing vampires, seemed remarkably calm. "I wish Isran were here to see it," he observed.

Lia's grey-bronze face went positively ashen. "I'm glad he's not," she answered flatly. "Things would be… ugly."

"By 'ugly', she means Isran's her pa," Hrafn added grimly. "And by 'pa', I mean the bastard tried to kill her because she told him she didn't run at Cloud Ruler."

"Your family is kinda awesome… and evil," Frothar told Martin.

"I'm impressed," Brynjolf agreed. "Your family has more drama than _The Wolf Queen_ and _2920_ put together."

"Well, I hope we provide future historians plenty of entertainment," Balgruuf countered flatly. "We just need to kill Alduin and Harkon first."

Hrongar snorted. "Details, brother, details. However, you didn't come here to catch up with us, I'm sure. Why are you here?"

Balgruuf told him and his brother embraced him. "I was jealous when I discovered you, not I, were the Dragonborn," Hrongar admitted softly. "But now, after seeing what you've gone through, the enemies you face… I can think of none better."

The former Jarl swallowed around the lump in his throat at Hrongar's simple confession. "I wish it had been you," he whispered, admitting his deepest shame. "I want to sit down and count the tithes, tend to the Landthings and watch my family grow fat-"

"You will again," Hrongar promised quietly. "Avenicci gets on my nerves. And you handle the Steward stuff better than anyone else I know."

_He doesn't think I will be High King. And… I am not certain I wish to be either._ Someone would need to rule. Balgruuf would take the duty if he had to. He… just couldn't stay in Whiterun. Too accessible, too easy to find-

"Stay for a few days, everyone," Hrongar suggested, looking at the gathered people. "There is much to discuss."

"Celann and I will need to leave," Lia said sadly. "I'm sorry, Jarl Hrongar, but I'm not sure I'll survive a few more days without snapping."

Hrongar inclined his head. "As you wish, Lady Lia. Brother…?"

"Balgruuf, stay." Lia's voice was firm. "You need to speak to your children. There are things that need to be said and I don't need to be around for that."

Balgruuf closed his eyes and nodded. He wanted to help her… but she was right. He needed to make things right with his children. In a few months, he could be dead or they could be, and he needed to make peace with how he'd wronged them.

Lia reached out with her hand once, cold fingers brushing his cheek, before turning to her son and uncle, embracing them both. Hrafn received a forearm clasp and everyone else a smile before she turned, walking into the gathering darkness. Balgruuf prayed to every god there ever was that she would return human and whole. Because if she didn't…

He knew he couldn't bear to lose her a second time. The world was in peril and all he wanted was one woman to live.

Basest sentimentality. But at the moment, it was his driving reason to fight and win.


	9. Talos Wept

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Moar depressing stuff; to understand the background of this chapter, it will help to read 'To Serve the Dragonborn'. Thanks to firelordstark for his idea of a Thalmor 'Good Daedra' trinity of Jyggalag, Molag Bal and Peryite.

…

**Talos Wept**

The Blue Palace, 4th Rain's Hand, 4E 202

"Talos wept."

It was Falk Firebeard, of all men, who uttered the blasphemy as the weary, travel-stained bearer of ill news rose to her feet, wide marigold eyes gleaming with tears. Her companion, a darkly handsome Imperial man in mage's robes, helped her up gently. Once-ornate silk robes hung from a tall, lean body as pasty yellow skin, creased by lines of grief and age, contrasted against night-black hair. Even the most ardent of the Stormcloaks present in the audience chamber – Jarl Ralof had sent Jorleif, his Steward, to discuss mutual defence pacts against the dragons – couldn't hate the Altmer woman before them, so wretched was her state and obvious devastation.

Elisif felt Wabbajack shiver beneath her fingers, the Madgoddess wanting to speak but daring not lest Swan-Neck lose her composure. The Jarl of Solitude and her patroness had become comfortable with each other, the Fair One's grief-stricken madness calling the Daedric Prince in the wake of Torygg's murder. The world was mad enough for Northstar to remain at Elisif's side, though now both were remarkably free of whimsy after Alduin's attack.

Solitude was rather forgiving of their Jarl bearing the staff. Partly it was the only other option being Bryling, who though a fine warrior barely paid attention to her holdings at Stonehills in Hjaalmarch. Idgrod had expressed her opinion several times on that, usually dryly and prophetically. But Elisif was smart enough to rule, wise enough to listen to advice, and if she insisted on everyone eating a bit of cheese during the Festival of King Olaf, well, at least they were getting something other than oats and dried meat. They even got free wine.

But the news brought by two Aurelii and the General of High Rock… Oh, Talos was weeping indeed. Elisif could hear the grief in Northstar's voice as she explained who Swan-Neck was.

"He is indeed," the oiran, the ancient courtesan trained in the ways of pleasure and guile by actual living Akaviri, confirmed softly. Elisif recalled her at functions in the Imperial Court, a golden swan surrounded by a flock of rainbow geese, the greatest jewel of the Aurelii women until Too-Tall rose to the Emperor's side.

"Lady, is there any hope for the Nords in Cyrodiil?" Jorleif asked softly.

"Fifteen Aurelii fled the Imperial City as soon as Motierre's name was announced as Emperor by an Elder Council bought and paid for with Thalmor gold," Swan-Neck responded sadly. "Only I and Marcurio survived to reach Bruma and warn the Nords there. The Count didn't believe us, so we turned to warning our clan. Of almost a hundred men, women and children, only thirty-two survive, including us."

"The Blades are now stationed at Sky Haven Temple," Elisif told the courtesan. "Esbern will surely take you in."

"Given that we have always been the core of the Blades, he should do so," the Altmer woman replied grimly. "Though it is good to know he lives. I always enjoyed his company."

"The Thalmor have chosen their time well," Bryling, who for all her faults, was also a fine war-leader pointed out flatly. "We can't save the Nords of Cyrodiil. Not while Alduin World-Eater lives."

"No, we cannot," Elisif agreed, looking at Jorleif and his contingent regretfully. "But… we can avenge them."

The Jarl of Solitude rose to her feet, feeling Northstar's bloodlust surge through her veins. The Madgoddess gloried in violence – she was the madness of the berserker, the warrior who tore opponents apart from limb to limb with her bare hands – and agreed with her protégé's decision. "Falk, do you have a list of all confirmed Thalmor agents? I will not kill innocent Altmer."

"If I don't, I'm sure Legate Rikke has," her Steward confirmed.

"Then give the order. Let every Thalmor and their allies be gathered, their goods forfeit. Have their heads separated from their bodies and displayed on spikes."

Swan-Neck actually tsked disappointingly. "That's very… tacky, my dear. I know you're a Nord, but I'm fairly sure you can do better than that."

It was Jorleif, of all people, who barked a laugh. "And how else should we display the heads?"

"Turn their skulls into cups and use black soul gems to capture their souls," the Altmer woman retorted bitterly. "Twice I have watched my clan die at the hands of the Thalmor-"

She broke down, the Akaviri composure shattering into tears, and Marcurio touched her shoulder gently. "Can I put her in a bed?" he asked quietly. "I need to speak to General Tullius anyway."

"Of course," Elisif said compassionately. Falk assigned Erdi to guide the Altmer woman to a guest bedroom.

"Still gather the Thalmor," she commanded the Steward. "I want their heads to roll."

"We'll have a hard time in Markarth," Falk responded. "The Justicars are based there."

Jorleif snorted. "Give _us_ the Justicars. We've got some… plans… for Ondolemar."

"Ah, with all respect, _we_ want Ondolemar," interjected a bulky young Nord at the edge of the chamber, clad in a plain black tunic and breeches. Elisif noted that his belt was knotted, not buckled, and a slim, subtly curved knife was thrust through it.

"And you are?" Windhelm's Steward demanded.

"Onmund, apprentice loremaster of the Blades," the youth responded promptly. "Ondolemar was a Blade, once. Esbern has… a dim view of traitors."

Jorleif visibly perked up. "How goes Ulfric?"

"He and the Harbinger went through Northwatch Keep like a dai-katana through a gourd," the Blade said proudly. "And he's a good teacher. We've already got an apprentice Tongue."

Elisif wasn't sure what to do with the Blades. Yes, she knew what their mission was, and she'd trusted Lia to a certain extent – but they, like the Dawnguard, were essentially an independent paramilitary force. Once Alduin was gone, what purpose would they have?

"Galmar will soon join you. Ralof Stormblade is surprisingly competent," Jorleif observed dryly.

"We'd be glad to have him," the mage answered sincerely. "We will need every bit of experience from the Great War we can muster."

Elisif was about to speak when Tullius, accompanied by Rikke, Hadvar and an unknown Breton woman with similar armour to his, stormed into the audience chamber. "Have you heard what that son of a bitch Motierre has done?" raged the General.

"Allowed the Thalmor to slaughter the Nords of Cyrodiil. We know," Elisif told him.

"That's the least of it, Jarl," the Breton woman said flatly. "Every commander who saw action in the Great War has been called home. My commander, General Matthieu, obeyed and wound up executed. The Thalmor aren't just slaughtering Nords, they're killing anyone with experience fighting them."

"You're not returning to Cyrodiil, Marcus!" Elisif commanded firmly. The thought of losing her stubborn, tactless Colovian-

"I'm not stupid," Tullius assured her, calming down a bit as the court began to talk excitedly. "With Amelie here, if I can get one more officer of Commander rank, I can legally declare war against the false Emperor."

"Maro won't join," Elisif said grimly. "He's…"

"Incompetent," Tullius finished flatly. His gaze was bleak and Elisif knew he was thinking of his homeland suffering again under a Thalmor's boot. "Have we thought about appropriate reprisals against the goldskins? The White-Gold Concordat can kiss my Colovian ass."

"Swan-Neck thinks we should turn their skulls into cups and put their souls in soul gems," Elisif assured him. "The Stormcloaks want the Justicars but the Blades want Ondolemar, who was supposedly one of them."

"Done, done and done," Tullius responded briskly. He looked significantly at Marcurio. "Aurelii, we can talk in Castle Dour. I need a full sitrep of what's going on in Cyrodiil."

"Of course, General," the mage agreed, looking faintly stunned. "But… ah… there were two clansfolk assigned to Skyrim. I need to get particular clan relics to them."

_"The banner of Lucius Aurelius and the dagger of his brother Caius,"_ Northstar murmured.

Tullius grunted. "Irkand's in Dawnstar and Lia… Aurelia Too-Tall… is dead."

"…That's succinct," Marcurio noted sardonically. "Is Too-Tall's-"

"That's need to know information and most of the people in this court don't need to know," Tullius interrupted.

"…Well, then." Marcurio sighed, looking too young for the burdens put on his shoulders. Elisif pitied him even as Northstar hummed thoughtfully. "May I leave, Jarl?"

"Of course," Elisif confirmed. "Court dismissed!"

The Stormcloaks were the first to leave, no doubt to get word to Ralof. Elisif pitied any Altmer on their side of Skyrim, but not too much. They should have fought harder against the Thalmor.

Falk, knowing Elisif's quirks, ushered out the rest of the court to let the Jarl brood on her throne. No doubt he thought she was devising tortures for the Thalmor as once she'd devised punishments for Ulfric Stormcloak.

_"Quick and clean's the way to go,"_ Northstar advised. _"You torture someone you hate, you take on their madness."_

_ "I would think you'd approve,"_ Elisif teased, the joke falling flat.

_"There's mad and then there's mad."_ Northstar sighed. _"Irkand will be greatly offended if he isn't allowed to join the killing spree. I don't need the Night Mother bitching at me."_

_ "I'll go get the nightshade and other bits,"_ Elisif agreed. She wanted blood and pain. The Thalmor were the root of all Skyrim's suffering. Understanding that had allowed her to forgive Ulfric, after a fashion, though if he ever darkened the Blue Palace again she'd disembowel him with a dull cheese knife.

_"Pfft. Send a messenger. He'll do this for free."_ Northstar paused and added, _"The Blades won't find Ondolemar. He's… ah… been my agent for a while."_

_ "I… what?"_

_ "When the Thalmor rose, I knew I'd need an agent in their ranks. I was still Grand Master then, so I picked a talented young Altmer to infiltrate their Justicars. He's been damned good at it too."_ Northstar chuckled at Elisif's shock. _"You've met him. You know he doesn't even pretend at the Dominion's motives."_

_ "…That makes a certain amount of sense,"_ the Jarl conceded. _"Esbern won't be happy."_

_ "Esbern and the Blades are going to have other issues to deal with. Molag Bal's making another power-play with the vampires of the Volkihar clan,"_ Northstar said warningly. _"I can only interfere so much in the mortal plane and I've spent the past two decades putting my piece into place."_

_ "Your piece?"_

_ "The one they call Too-Tall. I wasn't expecting the Dragonborn, but my great-great-granddaughter spent two years functionally insane. The Thalmor… Well, those arseholes claim to venerate the Aedra, but they've got another patron only the highest-ranking know about."_

_ "Molag Bal." _Elisif wasn't the smartest of women, but even she could read between the lines.

_"Well, he's part of it. Jyggalag, the Daedric Prince of Order, and Peryite, the Daedric Prince of pestilence and tasks, are currently his allies. Think the Thalmor version of the Dunmer's Good Daedra."_

_ "Sounds like a match made in Oblivion,"_ Elisif observed sarcastically. The shadows lengthened as the day moved on. Soon she'd need to review accounts with Falk, despite the grim news from the south.

_"Ten years ago, they got bolder,"_ Northstar said flatly. _"Martin disappeared. You know, the guy whose death sealed the barriers between Nirn and Oblivion?"_

That was when the brass statue of Akatosh had been ripped down…

_"This all sounds insane,"_ Elisif noted, enjoying the rich irony of saying that to the Madgoddes.

_"It is. The Volkihar want to kill the sun."_ Northstar's voice was grim. _"Not only the sun, but Meridia Herself."_

_ "And the Dawnbringer is dead-"_

_ "No! Temporarily a vampire, but not dead. She needs to be dead to go find the- ELISIF, LOOK OUT!"_

Instinctively, the Jarl of Solitude waved her staff towards the golden-eyed figure that launched itself at her from the shadows, fire erupting from its mouth. The vampire fell back, laughing soundlessly as it transformed into a winged monster from the bowels of Coldharbour.

"Madgoddess," he crooned, voice lulling Elisif despite her mind telling her to resist. "Molag Bal sends his regards."

Elisif found herself shunted aside, lips stretching in a febrile grin. "It's been a while since I've had the pleasure of ripping one of your kind to shreds personally," Northstar responded.

The vampire snickered. "You think that weak vessel of yours can win against a Vampire Lord."

"Hey, dumbass, you ever hear of mad strength?"Northstar taunted. "Go back home and tell Harkon to back the hell down and I won't kill him."

The Vampire Lord laughed and attacked. Elisif channelled all her fear, hatred and anger into a battle cry, causing the monster to flinch in shock. Then the world descended into a red haze.

When she returned to herself, she was being held by Tullius, the room painted in blood. "I know you're loyal to the Empire," he joked, "But did you really have to paint the Blue Palace red?"

_"I like that guy,"_ the Madgoddess noted, sounding sated.

_"So do I,"_ Elisif agreed. She'd never expected violence to be so… liberating. She'd also defended herself – well, with some help – against an actual evil monster and lived to tell the tale.

_"All I did was remove your inhibitations,"_ Northstar explained gently. _"You did all that yourself."_

_ "I hope I don't need to do it often…"_

_"You won't. Oh, Elenwen's on her way. Let her through; I have a special surprise for her from Sheo…"_

Elisif grinned when the Madgoddess told her. This was even better than skull cups. The Dominion was dedicated to order and domination?

Then let it discover the utter futility of trying to impose rigidity on a world that was mad and crazy. Let them discover what it was to anger the Nords, because apparently they hadn't learned the lesson with Ysgramor or Talos.

And somewhere, Talos wept as the bonds of the world began to break.


	10. Be Not Afraid

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. I never liked Falion as simply a Conjuror, so I've decided to make him have a purpose as a priest of Tu'whacca, the Redguard/Yokudan God of Death. I also borrowed two lines from Miracle of Sound's song 'Khajiit Like to Sneak'

I haven't gotten around to Dawnguard yet, so I'm taking liberties with the Soul Cairn mission because I can.

…

**Be Not Afraid**

Morthal, 5th Rain's Hand 4E 202

Falion swore as a figure wreathed in rusty-black robes emerged from the mists and swamps. Golden eyes gleamed in a gaunt face as a hood was swept back with one hand; the vampire didn't even look human anymore. "If you think my blood will feed you, child of Molag Bal, then think again," he warned. "Tu'whacca, God of Death, will defend me and carry me to the Far Shores-"

"Cure me. Please." The vampire held out a filled soul gem and an empty one, both black. "I have taken no blood beyond that of animals."

The mage-priest blinked. "You are the first Volkihar to seek this," he observed quietly.

"Harkon would destroy the sun. I need to stop him," she rasped, eyes pleading. "But the Dawnguard won't listen to me unless I'm human again."

Falion nodded grimly. "I hope your intent is true," he warned as he turned towards the Standing Stones. "Because if it isn't, you will be lost forever between here and the Far Shores."

"I have a son and a man to fight for," the vampire responded. "I'll be damned before Harkon wins."

"I hope it's enough," Falion murmured. "I really do."

He led the vampire to the Standing Stones and bid her to lie down. She obeyed, and he set the empty black soul gem at her head. The energy of the filled one was vampiric, and Falion smiled grimly, appreciating her sense of irony. It was Ra Gada in nature.

"Tu'whacca, this one's soul is wandering far from her body. Guardian of the Far Shores, aid her if she is worthy, destroy her if she is not…" He gathered his magic and cast it on the vampire, paralysing her. "In the name of Yokuda of old, in the name of the Ra Gada, in the name of the Crowns, I cast you into the outer darkness. Return home or be damned!"

Her body convulsed once and went still. Falion set to work to ward it so that no wandering demon could possess her. Only through death could she be reborn.

…

The Far Shores

Lia opened her eyes, finding herself on a golden beach by the sea beneath a sun so fierce and bright she could only be in one place – Hammerfell.

She was alive and she was whole. Well, she was whole. This place was nothing like the Hammerfell she recalled; everything was perfect. Only the Far Shores were perfection, according to the old tales…

"Daughter of Rustem," whispered a man's voice, soft like the wind. "Daughter of pain, of struggle, of madness."

"Tu'whacca," she breathed.

"Indeed," spoke the God of Death. "You have endured admirably. Peace is yours, if you wish it."

"Death is not an option, my lord," Lia responded grimly. "Too much is riding on me."

"You struggle, clinging to life even when it has passed," Tu'whacca noted. "For others, you would sacrifice yourself often and joyfully. Submission has been beaten into you since birth and you have embraced it."

A handsome Ra Gada man coalesced in a swirl of wind and sand, holding a mirror in one hand. "See the possibilities of what could have been," he commanded. Unwillingly, Lia obeyed, and found herself unable to look away.

She saw herself as Dragonborn, Balgruuf her beloved advisor. She was Empress in her own right after Titus' death. Arch-Mage of the College of Winterhold. A farmer, a healer, a wanderer. Every possibility a result of making her own choices…

"Even now you seek redemption, not for yourself but for others," Tu'whacca observed. "You sway with the opinions of others, obey the commands of powerful beings, bleed and die so that the world might be saved."

"The needs of the many come before the needs of the one," she rasped.

"You are a pawn," Tu'whacca continued mercilessly. "The world will go on without you."

"Not if Harkon has his way. Not if Alduin World-Eater consumes the world."

"The pawn is not important."

"When she's the Dawnbringer and the Grand Master of the Blades, she is." Lia clenched both her fists – so amazing to be whole again! – and stared Tu'whacca down. "So either test me or kill me, but don't waste my time."

The God blinked and then laughed heartily in that Ra Gada way. "So the leaf thinks herself capable of deciding her own path upon the winds. Two choices lie ahead of you: a peaceful end and a place in Sovngarde to stand by the Dragonborn at the end of time… or a return to life, life that has become immeasurably worse since the rise of Molag Bal. Harkon will know of your betrayal, daughter of Rustem; your clan is scattered and broken by the Thalmor; and Molag Bal Himself will take notice of you."

The quiet resolution which had been building since the acceptance of her heritage at Winterhold and the embracing of her Nord ancestry at Fort Dawnguard bloomed into powerful certainty. "I am Lia, called Sedinkoorven, the South Summer Wind, in the dragon-tongue. I am a worshipper of Dibella and champion of Meridia. I'm the Grand Master of the Blades. And if You call me daughter of Rustem again, I will kick Your Divine arse back to Yokuda-that-Was."

Tu'whacca shook his head in visible amusement. _"Nords,"_ he breathed.

"Guilty as charged."

The God of Death nodded sombrely, amusement vanishing. "I cannot return you directly to life, as Molag Bal will take notice and destroy My only priest in Skyrim. But I can lead you to a path which will pass beneath his gaze. You will need to be quiet, clever and smart."

Lia nodded, flexing her fingers. "Bring it on."

"As you wish… child of the winds." Tu'whacca gestured and Lia fell into hell.

…

The Soul Cairn

The Soul Cairn was blasphemy made flesh. Lia had never really considered what happened to the animal souls that were casually trapped to enchant magical objects, but the sheer amount of broken spirits told her that only Molag Bal could have created such a hellish dimension. If this was the cost of enchanted weapons, then Lia was fairly certain the cost was too damned high.

She relied on the skills learned at the hands of Dar'saad and the other Khajiit of the camps. _Be not afraid, stick to the shade,_ she reminded herself. The kits had been better at sneaking than her, but on the whole her tongue had been sweeter. Dar'saad had always been fair, even if she'd eaten the dead flesh of his kit during those nine terrible days.

She'd just passed some Dunmer rambling about Kvatch when she spotted a golden scroll. _An Elder Scroll… here?_ Lia, as the Emperor's concubine, had seen the artefacts once when a Moth Priest had brought one to the Emperor before locking it away in the White-Gold Tower. And since Farkas had announced they needed one…

_There is no past. No future. Only now._ Dar'saad's lessons in burglary came back to her as she crept forward past dull-eyed ghosts. Such a thing would not be left here unguarded-

A skeletal dragon rose from the roiling depths and roared challenge at a figure in the distance. "You will not take the Kel!" he roared.

"I am Serana, daughter of Valerica, who you were bound to protect!" retorted the figure, emerging into the light cast by the Elder Scroll. "I am here for the Scroll of the Sun!"

_Okay, fuck you, Daughter of Coldharbour,_ Lia thought grimly as the monstrous dragon and the vampire prophesised to help kill the sun squared off against each other, preparing for a battle. Even if she didn't make it from the Soul Cairn, Serana couldn't get her hands on the Elder Scroll.

Serana was Nord and coldly beautiful by vampire standards, her golden eyes grim. "I cannot allow it to fall into the hands of my father's lackeys," she told the dragon coaxingly. "I swear, I mean you no harm."

_Sweetums, dragons are rarely impressed by promises to do them no harm, _the Dawnbringer thought sardonically as she edged sideways towards the Scroll. Apparently Mr. Undead Dragon agreed, because he belched an unholy Shout that summoned hideous draugr and monsters straight from the mind of Molag Bal.

Serana responded with enslaving one of the poor souls stuck here – the Dunmer babbling about Kvatch – and unleashed an ice spike.

Lia might have placed a bet on zombie dragon versus vampire but she opted instead to stealthily creep up to the Elder Scroll and grab it. Once it was removed from its pedestal, blazing light coruscated from the golden scroll, blinding her and blasting everything else in sight.

Creeping turned to running as Lia, shining with the light of the Daystar, ran past a screaming dragon and Serana for the portal to only the gods knew where. But it was her ticket out of here. She barrelled through it, still blind, and felt herself crash against solid wooden furniture. The thick odour of rot and blood hit her nose, all too familiar, and she heard Ronthil's eager voice asking if Lady Serana wanted anything.

She was back in Castle Volkihar, it seemed. Forcing herself to use her senses of hearing and touch, she felt around until she touched a smooth soul gem in a holder. A quick yank pulled it out of its socket and slammed the portal shut, trapping Serana in hell. No sympathy for vampires.

"I'm fine, Ronthil!" she called out in Serana's voice. "Just an experiment gone wrong!"

"Ah. Do you need a thrall? We have some fresh stock from Valenwood-"

"I'm _fine_, Ronthil. Just a little dizzy."

"Of course, Lady Serana. If you need me, you know where to find me." Lia kept her breathing shallow as the poor little Bosmer vampire walked away, not wanting to let him know a living woman was in the Castle.

Because she _was_ alive now and in the midst of her enemies. Casting her mind out, she reached for the presence of Meridia.

_"Dawnbringer-"_

_ "Can you stop the glow? I'm stuck in the middle of a castle full of vampires. I'm blind, I've got an Elder Scroll Harkon wants badly, and I really need to sneak out and get back to the Dawnguard before Molag Bal picks up we're both here."_

_ "Oh."_ Lia felt the Daedric Prince rummage through her mind. _"It's dangerous to be alone. Here, take this."_

And the Ring of Khajiiti surrounded Lia's finger.

_"You are invisible to all senses, even vampiric ones,"_ Meridia told her apologetically. _"I should have given it to you earlier instead of the Daystar, but I thought you were to be a Queen-"_

_ "I'm the Grand Master of the Blades. I… don't know what will happen between me and Balgruuf, but I can't be Queen. But thanks, Milady Meridia. If the vampires can't sense me, I owe them some payback."_

Meridia chuckled brightly and receded, Lia's vision clearing. She was in a dank, dim study somewhere. Cracking open the door, she crept down the corridor towards the feasting hall. _Be not afraid… Stick to the shade._

Vingalmo and Orthjolf were arguing in the middle of the Great Hall over some poor Bosmer thrall. "He is mine," insisted the Altmer. "My Thalmor contacts sent him to me."

_Mother of gods, Volkihar is working with the Thalmor!_ Lia had heard darker secrets and reacted just as little. She kept on creeping slowly towards the front door, knowing she'd need to make a run for it once she threw a spell or two into the quarrelling duo.

"You're pathetic. Even the Altmer are nothing but prey," Orthjolf responded curtly. "Delicious prey, I might add."

Vingalmo might have retorted haughtily, except Lia's well-timed Frenzy spell forced him to snarl incoherently and go for Orthjolf's throat. The violence spread out amongst the two senior vampires' followers as Lia rose to her feet and bolted for the door.

Ronthil, damn his hide, beat her there. "Harkon's been looking for you!" he hissed.

Lia called fire to her hand. Ronthil had done his best to be kind for her, but she couldn't let the poor sod get in her way. "I found a cure for vampirism, Ronthil. Now get out of the way or die."

"You-You rejected the Gift!" The Wood Elf looked stunned.

"I like my soul. I have a family." Lia flared the fire in her palm suggestively and eyed the door. "I walked through the Soul Cairn to get here, Ronthil. I'm not going to let some poor bastard who's been so victimised he identifies with those who've hurt him get in my way."

The vampire's gaze twisted with anguish. "I've… killed people. Can I be cured?"

"I don't know. But there's someone who might be able to help you. Now, either you help me or you get out of my way."

Rargal Thrallmaster emerged from the other wing, drawn by the violence. "For fuck's sake, Ronthil, stop talking to your food-"

Lia flung the fireball in her hand at the monstrous Nord, engulfing him with white-gold light. "I wasn't expecting that," she observed as Harkon's voice grew nearer.

Ronthil looked bleakly at her. "I'm damned," he said sadly. "Go. I'll hold him off."

"Fuck that." Lia grabbed the little Bosmer, flung a Telekinesis spell at the doors to open them, and did a runner past the gargoyles already stirring to life as the Lord of Castle Volkihar detected a mortal touched by Meridia.

_"Don't give me that look. He's a victim, Meridia. And if Falion can cure him-"_

_ "I hope you are correct, Dawnbringer,"_ Meridia sighed. _"Because all the light and life in this world depend on you now."_

_ No pressure,_ the Grand Master thought sarcastically as she jumped off the bridge into the ice-cold water. Ronthil didn't need to breathe… and she'd picked up the Waterbreathing spell at the College.

Gargoyles couldn't swim. And it was cold enough that Harkon wouldn't detect her body heat.

_Be not afraid. Stick to the shade…_

It would be a long swim to shore. Hopefully Ronthil could swim, because she couldn't carry him forever.

…

Sky Haven Temple, 10th Rain's Hand 4E 202

Every soul gem from here to Markarth had crumbled into dust.

Esbern swore and swept up the crystalline dust. How was he going to recharge all the enchanted weapons?

"Molag Bal made the first soul gems, Esbern. Given the havoc he's trying to wreak, don't you think we should find more ethical ways to make our weapons and armour?"

_"…Grand Master?"_ The Breton loremaster spun around to look up at a skinny, bright-eyed version of the woman who had commanded him to unsheathe his blade, the woman who had executed Delphine for defying the Dragonborn… The woman who appeared to have beaten Death itself.

"Hello," Lia greeted nonchalantly, like coming back from the dead was no big deal. She was so much like Arius – no, maybe even like Northstar herself – that Esbern had to look twice to recall the turquoise eyes and facial scar.

"Your arm is buried under the juniper trees in the courtyard," he responded blandly, gesturing to her empty ragged sleeve.

"I'll pay Galathil a visit," the Grand Master drawled, dumping a semi-conscious vampire on the ground. "This is Ronthil. Give him all the goats he can take. I feel for the guy, but if he gets snappy and goes for a human's throat, put him down."

Esbern nodded, taking a deep breath. "Lia, I have horrible news from Bruma."

"I have horrible news from Fort Dawnguard," she countered grimly. "I know about the clan. Tu'whacca told me just before I was thrown into the Soul Cairn."

"I need a drink."

"Me too. And food." Lia shuddered. "I've got news that might just be as horrible as Alduin himself."

"Another day, another apocalypse," Esbern sighed. Days like this he wished he'd never left Riften.

"You have no idea, old friend. No damned idea at all."


	11. When in Doubt, a Daedra Will Do

Note: We need another Martin viewpoint. I'll also feature cameos of characters from my other Skyrim stories because I can. ^_^

The Aedra vs. Daedra stuff is a combination of lore, my interpretation of it, and my head-canon. Do not take it as information about the setting. Totally also ripping off one of firelordstark's little lore ideas about heartstones…

…

**When in Doubt, A Daedra Will Do**

Riften, 15th Rain's Hand, 4E 202

"Where the hell did all these refugees come from?" Brynjolf asked Vex as the Thieves passed another knot of ragged, hollow-eyed Nords. Martin, tagging along behind them, didn't pick anyone's pockets because he knew where the olive skin and aquiline features came from.

"Bruma," he told the half-Reachman Guild Master.

"What, lad?" Brynjolf asked irritably. The influx of refugees was impacting on Thieves' Guild business.

"Bruma," Martin repeated. "They're Bruma Nords. Like me."

Brynjolf's eyes narrowed. "Do you think the dragons have hopped over the border, lad?"

One of the Bruma Nords, a vaguely familiar woman, laughed harshly. "It was the Thalmor," she told the Thief bitterly. "Emperor Motierre let them come in and finish Bruma off. If not for the Aurelii, we'd be dead."

Vex cursed, long and low, as Brynjolf's face hardened. His organisation was full of liars, cheats, conmen, burglars, jailbreakers, pickpockets and thugs. Martin had no illusions about the Guild he was taking sanctuary with. He just knew they were more honest than the criminals in the Imperial Court, the ones who'd been polite to him and his mother while insulting them behind their backs for being Nord.

"Justinia," Martin greeted, recalling the woman. She'd been a baker at the Castle Bruma, where he'd lived most of the time – much to Count Iannos' displeasure.

Her eyes widened and then she smiled, the expression heartbreaking. "They didn't get you after all, little Martin."

"No. But they don't know where I am." Maybe he shouldn't have spoken to her, but he couldn't deny the pain in his people's eyes. Bruma was his home, more than anywhere else in the world, and to know the goldskins had destroyed it-

For the first time in his life, Martin knew what it was to truly hate.

"I understand," Justinia agreed, and raised her voice. "We understand, right?"

Angry mutters echoed her agreement as a spark raced through the crowd. Brynjolf and Vex watched, bemusedly, as Martin of Bruma and his people forged a compact in that moment of time. He might be just nine years old, but he knew the duty of a ruler – listening to Balgruuf lecture his children in between apologising for his absence and explaining _why_ he'd abandoned them had confirmed all his father taught him – and he wouldn't shirk from it.

Looking at the ragged refugees, he saw the need for food and shelter; some of the stories his mother shared of her youth in the Khajiit caravans, even couched for a child's ears, had been explicit about what hunger and deprivation felt like. He'd have to ask about the cost of dried food and tents and steal stuff to pay for them-

Justinia looked at him, brown eyes glittering. "You'll do," the baker, a shadow of her stout self, murmured.

Brynjolf and Vex exchanged glances again before having a hushed conversation about cleaning things. Martin understood what 'cleaning' meant in thieves' cant: trading stolen property and coin through intermediaries until they appeared legitimate. His mother, like any good Aurelii woman, had made sure he understood practicalities.

_"The clear heart sees with clear eyes,"_ Lia explained, teaching him how to pick locks two years ago, once his fingers had become flexible enough. _"People see what they expect to. Never have illusions about the origin of every luxury you enjoy, Martin: someone, somewhere, bled or starved for it. When it comes to the Court, they'll expect you to be a childish spoilt son of the Emperor's Consort. Let them think that."_

Advice which had served him well. Motierre expected him to be an arrogant kid who couldn't get out of a situation, but Martin's knowledge of picking locks had landed him with the Thieves' Guild.

Recalling his meeting with the Guild Masters, Martin tugged on Brynjolf's sleeve. "Hey, you remember them firs we acquired?" he asked the senior Thief.

"Aye, lad. We've been hard put to be rid of them-"

"I know. They're taking up inventory space and Tonilia's bit- err, complaining about it." His mother was so strange sometimes. She taught him how to steal, con and survive as a thief, but she frowned on bad language. "We could give them to the refugees to build new stuff. Or at least shelters until they can have proper houses."

"The Guild's not a charity, lad. I'm sympathetic but-"

"Fine. Take the cost outta my share of any jobs. But I ain't letting my people starve and be cold, Bryn." Martin stared up at the older Nord, daring him to refuse _that_.

Vex was rubbing her chin. "How many of you people are craftsmen?" she asked of the crowd. Several hands went up and she nodded thoughtfully, asking their trades. The butcher, the baker and even a candlestick maker (okay, he was a jeweller, but Martin thought it sounded better like that) all revealed themselves, and the Thief grinned.

"We got ourselves a cleaning service right there, Bryn," she told the Guild Master.

The Nord sighed. "Karliah is going to have a fit," he said – but he hadn't disagreed.

Martin grinned. He could help his people and the Guild at the same time.

…

Nightingale Hall

Karliah, like Brynjolf, was sympathetic. But their oaths to Nocturnal held that they couldn't intervene so directly, even if the 'cleaning service' was perfect. They and Delvin took the young Prince to the Nightingale Hall to contact Nocturnal Herself.

Martin had grown up with 'Daedra bad, Aedra good'. But his mother was the Dawnbringer, Agent of Meridia, and there were tales his uncle Irkand shared that indicated an Aurelii had become the Madgod. And Uncle Hrafn (he was totally related to Orcs, who were awesome!) worshipped Malacath. Some Daedra were jerks, but Martin was willing to take a bet on a couple others who didn't want to obliterate or rule humanity.

The ritual to contact Nocturnal was fairly brief; they were professionals fulfilling a contract, not priests after all. The Daedric Prince manifested as a ball of soft violet light similar to Karliah's eyes, her melodic voice filled with amusement. "Azura told me you'd be contacting me soon," the goddess of Thieves observed dryly.

Before anyone could speak, Martin decided to lay his case before the Prince. "I'm Martin Aurelius Mede and a jerk named Armaund Motierre has taken what belongs to me. Well, it won't be until I'm eighteen, but he had my Dad killed and my Mama shipwrecked and me nearly sold as a slave. I was lucky to escape because of thieving skills my Mama taught me."

"An Aurelii?" Nocturnal asked thoughtfully. "Your clan has always lingered in the shadows."

"Is there anyone who doesn't know who my family is?" Martin asked petulantly before he remembered he was talking to a goddess he was asking for a favour.

Nocturnal's snicker echoed Bryn and Delvin's as Karliah sighed. "He is an active member of the Guild despite his youth," she assured the Prince.

"I know. Unfortunately, two other Powers have a claim on him – Northstar, the Madgoddess, has told me I can have him if he serves Me willingly. But the Dragon-God will not be denied. The boy is… the rightful heir to the Empire Akatosh is patron to." Nocturnal sighed. "I know why you have contacted Me. What the boy has asked goes beyond covert support – using Guild resources to actively aid the refugees-"

"My people!" Martin interjected, trying to think of some way to sway the Daedra.

"They are not yours until you are eighteen," Nocturnal reminded him… and gave him an idea.

"I'm going to have to sneak and steal and spy to fight Motierre anyways, ma'am, and Your servants will protect me so long as I'm a member of the Guild," Martin reminded Her. "So, why don't I work for You until I'm eighteen, and if Akatosh wants me – well, He can come down and tell me Himself."

Nocturnal made a thoughtful noise. "If you die before eighteen, boy, you will go to Evergloam," She said warningly.

"Then I'll just have to make sure I don't die. Err, I mean that in the best possible way."

Karliah facepalmed as Nocturnal laughed. "It has been long since I had an Aurelii servant," She noted. "I will give you no more or no less grace than I would any other thief in service to Me, Martin Aurelius Mede. I have three Nightingales and have no wish to anger Akatosh."

"Oh." Martin sighed. "I'll use my share of the loot to help my people then."

"I wasn't refusing your service, dear child," Nocturnal said fondly. "I will hide you until you are eighteen. You will be able to stand on top of the White-Gold Tower and proclaim yourself Martin Aurelius Mede and the world will take no notice of you."

"The Grey Cowl," Delvin, always the smartest of the trio for all Karliah claimed to know about Nocturnal more, breathed.

"Indeed. Do not worry, Martin – your mother, as Agent of Meridia, will always be able to penetrate the Cowl's effects. I would be careful where you meet her though, in case the wrong eyes take notice." Nocturnal paused as the boy, who was still a child, struggled to make sense of what she was saying. "The Nightingales and the other Thieves will know you for what you are too. But neither Thalmor, Motierre nor vampire will be able to find you. I cannot speak of the Dragonborn and Akatosh will always know where you are."

"Nothing comes for free. Not a Guild contract, not the Grey Cowl," Martin finally said, remembering tales of bargains made with the Daedra. But he had no choice, especially with the confirmation he _was_ the rightful Emperor.

"Powerful forces gather around your family, most of them too strong for Me to pry into their secrets. But you will be My spy and occasionally thief." Nocturnal paused when Martin didn't answer and added, reluctantly as if she hated to reveal specifics, "I mean no harm to your family or the Empire. Serve Me well as a Thief in the Guild, I may even steer you in the direction of ways you can help them."

"Why?" Martin was being rude, but he needed to know.

"As above, so below. What happens in Aetherius and Oblivion echoes on the mortal plane and vice versa," She responded reluctantly. "There are forces amongst My kind who would crush and dominate Us all. We have… mutual enemies."

He instinctively knew that She would reveal no more than that. It was the best he was going to get. "Will the Guild use the resources it can spare to help the refugees?" he asked.

"So long as it benefits the Guild, yes," Nocturnal confirmed.

"Then I'll do it." He couldn't think of any other options and being able to hide from all the bad people would be good too.

"Then place your hands on the altar of Nocturnal," Karliah commanded, her voice wary.

Martin obeyed and felt the shadows shiver momentarily. The boy taught by his father muttered that Daedra were bad and Aedra were good… But the Aurelii side of him, son of the Dawnbringer whore, the grandnephew of the Listener, murmured, _"The clear heart sees with clear eyes. Have no illusions. You need this to survive."_

Grey leather flowed over him, tightening around his face, cloaking him from the sight of men, spirits and demons. Mortals untouched by the shadows would forget him: Justinia and the others would assume he left for somewhere safer, away from the border, while Motierre and the Thalmor would think him dead.

And the little bit who was still a child, a mischievous lad, was positively gleeful at the chance to get away with almost anything.

_"Oh dear,"_ Nocturnal murmured, sounding like his mother when she'd caught him doing something that was bad… but that amused her, even made her proud. _"What have I unleashed?"_

_"The King of Thieves?"_ he thought cheekily at Her.

_"I'll hold you to that, Martin Mede."_

And so She would.

...

Raven Rock, 18th Rain's Hand 4E 202

"Why should we help the Nords? They invaded us during the Battle of Red Mountain!"

"We also worked with them during the Ebonheart Pact," Irileth reminded Councillor Morvayn frankly. "Nords aren't perfect and the ones in the east are bastards. But Alduin darkens the skies above Skyrim and when he's done there, he'll devour us."

"Hope he likes 'em ashy then," muttered one of the refugees from Motierre's Nord purges, a disturbingly Bosmer-looking huntress. Given that the Three Good Daedra were worshipped here, Irileth was the last to judge someone on their dietary preferences, even if she was mildly insulted at the implication Dunmer tasted bad. Her people were the toughest, most cunning and deadliest elves in Tamriel! The cannibal should be honoured to taste Dunmer flesh!

"I will go myself. I must. Azura has foreseen my presence at the final battle against Alduin," Irileth explained. "I am not commanding us to abandon Solstheim. Only be prepared for refugees… and do _not_ enslave them."

"I… What?" One of the Telvanni Councillors scowled. "We might as well put them to use if we must feed them!"

"If you haven't noticed, slavery has bitten us in the arse with the Argonians," Irileth drawled sardonically. "Once, we fled the Aldmer to become the Chimer as we were sick of being slaves. The Argonians take pleasure in killing us – and rightfully so."

The Priest of the Reclamations – who was still getting over the loss of Mephala – nodded grimly. "Boethiah frowns upon slavery; if a fool trusts you and is taken advantage of, made less than real, that is one thing… But only struggle and blood makes one real. I'll give the Nords this – they've certainly proven themselves capable of distinguishing themselves through struggle and blood, on themselves as well as others."

"I'll keep the Nords to the north," Irileth added consolingly. "The Skaal would likely welcome the fresh infusion of blood."

"If they are willing to honour the All-Maker and learn our ways, they will be welcome," Frea confirmed. Having a Nord _and_ a Skaal (the races had diverged somewhat, though which one was the offshoot Irileth didn't know) on the Council had angered several Telvanni. The Ebon Blade had drunk well of the fools' blood.

"The woman's a fucking Daedra. If She tells you slavery is bad, then it's bad," Neloth Telvanni told his descendant crossly. The ancient wizard had taken credit for Irileth becoming the Daedric Prince of the Dunmer, fire, necessary deception and bloody cunning. If he wasn't so useful, she'd have thrown him into the Red Mountain.

"Daedra?" Frea threw Irileth a startled glance. "Are not the Princes evil?"

"Some… are," Irileth conceded. "Molag Bal, Mehrunes Dagon, Herma-Mora. Others are… ambiguous. Boethiah is rebellion against tyranny but She is also the Mother of Murderers. We make ourselves worthy of Him through bloody struggle."

"I'll stick with the All-Maker, if you don't mind," Frea told her. "But you are Skaal-friend and that is good enough for me."

Some of Irileth's followers muttered, mostly the ones she'd picked up after coming to Solstheim. The ones who'd lived in Skyrim understood.

"You are under My protection," Irileth assured the shaman. "Anyone who dares the Land of Ash and Snow is welcome, so long as they are not here to threaten My people."

_"I'm proud of you," _Azura told her.

_"I'm still trying not to call you names, Mother… But thank you."_

Azura chuckled quietly and went to wherever She went after leaving Irileth's mind.

"I will return," Irileth promised her people. "I am fond of Skyrim, but I wouldn't want to live there now."

"Who would?" asked the Bosmer-Nord mix-breed. "When the Thalmor are done with Skyrim, they'll come here."

"And they will discover the power of the Red Mountain," Irileth told her. "But Alduin… He is the greatest danger."

"You think?" Aranea, released from Azura's service to be Irileth's first priestess (much to the Nerevarine's frustration), observed dryly.

"On a more practical level, you'll have trouble landing at Windhelm," Stig Salt-Sage, the owner of the Northern Maiden, pointed out. "Ralof's not as rabid as Ulfric, but the revelation you were the Nerevarine and Balgruuf's huscarl angered a lot of Stormcloaks, my lady."

"We still need to collect the belongings my Dunmer left behind," Irileth reminded him. "The Argonians have guarded them, but… their need may prove greater than their desire not to anger me."

"Well, I'll drop you off in Dawnstar and you can walk the rest of the way," the sailor responded sardonically. "I'd rather not watch the Stormblade meet the Red Mountain."

Irileth couldn't fault the man. Humans had short lives and if Ralof was stupid, they could get shorter still. Ulfric may have disappeared, but Ralof was his left-hand man and now literal successor. The Goddess of the Dunmer (it was so strange, she didn't _feel_ any different beyond losing a few aches and pains) intended to have a polite little chat with the man concerning the treatment of her people in Windhelm. She was the first to admit the dark elves had brought _some_ of it on themselves, but after the Red Year, they'd surely paid for it.

"As you wish," she said aloud, looking over the gathered Council. Man and Mer, working together in harmony, each respecting the other's ways. It was a beautiful dream… if she could make it work.

_I love this world,_ she realised. Though she was (technically) a Daedric Prince now, she understood that she was tied to the mortal plane; not to the depths of the Aedra, but more so than someone like Molag Bal…

_"He's behind the vampires,"_ her mother supplied helpfully.

_"At this rate, I'd believe he was behind Alduin,"_ Irileth thought sourly. _"Domination of the weak, devouring the souls of others…"_

There was a long pause from Azura. _"That… makes a hideous amount of sense. Once, Alduin only consumed that which Akatosh considered detritus. He was the firstborn son of Akatosh. But in the Merethic Era, he… changed. And when he changed, the female dragons – the Jills – fled to Akatosh's side, leaving the male dragons without their balance."_

_ "Pfft, they weren't strong enough to withstand the slaughter,"_ Boethiah noted scornfully.

_"The minute-menders were never meant to be the _active _force of time,"_ Azura observed dryly. _"And… female is perhaps a little inaccurate. There have been male Jills and aggressive females. But the _reactive_ force of time has generally been female."_

_ "That is why so many seers are female,"_ Irileth said, realising something for the first time.

_"Well, that and a bargain I made with Akatosh in the wake of Nerevar's demise,"_ Azura confessed sheepishly. _"I exchanged foresight for all of those with the dragon's blood who belong to Akatosh – trust me, the dragon's blood and Dragonborn can be _very_ different things, so don't expect your friend Balgruuf to break out into rashes of prophecy any time soon – for Nerevar to be reincarnated as the literal avatar of the Dunmer people. You needed to be Dragonborn to be able to speak Dovahzul, for it's the tongue of the original spirits, but Akatosh demanded you be unable to absorb the souls of His children. In return, I requested that you be permitted to become a Daedric Prince in full, albeit one tied more to Nirn than Boethiah or most of the others."_

_ "And Akatosh agreed to this?"_ Aedra and Daedra were supposed to be mortal enemies!

_"We aren't bound to Nirn as its bones… but some of us are tied more than others. Myself, Nocturnal, Hircine, Meridia and Sanguine were the first five; Sheogorath joined our number when He became the Madgoddess at the end of the Third Era. Malacath is dipping His toe into the pool, so to speak, because of His patronage of the Orcs."_

_ "And a few of those who think you're batshit insane are helping out because mortals are just so damned entertaining," _Boethiah added sarcastically. _"While others are… actively working against you."_

_ "Mehrunes Dagon is staying the hell out of everything; he still bears the scars of Akatosh's flame and the Madgoddess came along later to finish the job by binding him with chains of madness and spite. That woman hates better than Dumac. Vaermina and Namira are… neutral. They don't care either way. Hermaeus Mora is playing his own game, as always, though he will stay far from you but needle your followers. Molag Bal, Jyggalag and Peryite have joined forces to subvert the Thalmor – which is to say the Altmer – craving for order and stasis into something which can change the world."_

_ "…And mortals think _I _am evil. But I would shudder to live in a world shaped to those three and their whims,"_ Boethiah murmured. _"All are equal under me: you are either worthy of my notice through your own efforts or you are less than nothing."_

_ "Clavicus Vile switches sides whenever it pleases Him,"_ Azura said sourly. _"And Mephala… She is utterly broken. Not destroyed, but rendered a simple Daedra."_

_ "What of Sithis?" _Irileth needed to know about the First.

_"All That Is Not keeps His own counsel. If the Night Mother, who is… well, very much a Daedric Prince like you – not bound to Nirn totally but certainly tied there – is of a different opinion, then the Dread Father will not gainsay Her."_

_ "And so you work with the Aedra."_ With Her simple explanation of Daedric politics, Azura had totally shattered what remained of Irileth's belief system.

_"Some. Stendarr refused point-blank to work with us. Julianos and Zenithar are sceptical. Dibella, closest to us, agreed because She loves Nirn and hates Molag Bal. Mara thinks She can make us 'better people'. Arkay sees this as an alliance of convenience, for He hates undead nearly as much as Meridia. Kynareth is 'the enemy of my enemy'; She's not as pacifistic as the Imperials would have you believe. And of course, Akatosh has always been tolerant of the Daedra who saw value in Nirn, and He has no wish to be unravelled and then ravelled into what shape Molag Bal desires."_

_ "…You say nothing of Talos."_ Irileth finally managed to say something. She knew her friend still worshipped the hero-god though it was against Imperial law.

_"Pfft. Shor. Wulfharth. Ysmir. Talos. Trickster. God. Better to call Him what He is: Ysmir. The God of Man, I suppose, always born from the First Men and set to shape the world to His will. Father and son of Akatosh, the axle on which the Wheel of Time spins."_

The Blades had hinted during the Great War that the Thalmor sought to destroy the idea of Talos because he'd conquered them and was the lynchpin of the world, but Irileth now understood the deeper cosmological truths behind what the mortals knew. _"If Talos dies…"_

_ "He is an avatar. No more, no less. His soul will pass to Sovngarde and a new hero will take his place as the Hero-God for the next Age. Possibly even your friend Balgruuf."_

_ "There are worse choices," _Irileth pointed out.

_"Agreed! Though Balgruuf Stormcrown doesn't have quite the same ring to it."_ Azura snickered. _"But the Stormcrown is nothing but Ysmir's living avatar. To destroy the world will take a lot more than just stopping people from worshipping Him. Lorkhan's Heart, after all, was never destroyed… only shattered."_

_ "Heartstone!"_

_ "'She wouldn't understand,' You said," _Azura said sarcastically to Boethiah. _"'She's not ready,' You said."_

_ "Shut up, Azura,"_ Boethiah retorted wearily. _"Why do You have to be always right?"_

_ "Because I am,"_ the Goddess of Dusk and Dawn countered haughtily.

_"I hate You."_ Boethiah withdrew, going to sulk or whatever He did when not actively tormenting people.

_"Why couldn't I have remained mortal?"_ Irileth thought wearily at her mother. And she'd thought Hold politics in Skyrim was bad!

_"You never were,"_ Azura pointed out. _"Now you'd better speak to your servants, darling. Some of them are getting restless."_

She vanished, leaving Irileth's head aching and a group of Dunmer, Nords and a random Imperial looking at her. "I was just communing with Azura and Boethiah," the Nerevarine finally admitted. "My apologies, it was… complicated."

"They generally are," the Priest of the Reclamations said sympathetically. "Any new insights for us, oh Queen of the Dunmer?"

"Beyond 'Hermaeus Mora is the Fifth Corner of the House of Troubles – or the Fourth if we accept that this incarnation of Sheogorath, the Madgoddess, is slightly less antagonistic to the Dunmer than Her predecessor', 'Molag Bal, Jyggalag and Peryite are the Thalmor's best friends', and 'Mephala is now nothing more than a simple Daedra', not really," Irileth answered nonchalantly.

Her response set the crowd abuzz; the Dunmer were stunned, the Skaal looked pleased, the Nords were unsurprised, and the Bosmer-Nord was suggesting that eating Thalmor was a religious duty and offered a few recipes. The random Imperial simply fainted, so Irileth had him taken to the Temple of the Reclamations for healing.

In later years, the priests would add 'Casual Bringer of Catastrophic Change' to Irileth's titles, and it would be the one she most cherished.


	12. Nightshade and Deathbell

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! Things have kinda sucked in the previous chapters, so I'll throw in a bit of romance… Dark Brotherhood style! Enjoy!

…

**Nightshade and Deathbell**

Dawnstar Sanctuary, 20th Rain's Hand 4E 202

Irkand had always been a cerebral sort of fellow, even in his lusts. _"More Imperial than the Imperials,"_ his mother had murmured, running her hand through hair that was Colovian-straight instead of Ra Gada-wiry like Rustem's. It was one of the few memories he had of the woman who had disappeared, like all the non-Aurelii females did, once he reached the age of five. He found her grave when trying to use a modified Clairvoyance spell to track down Lia in the aftermath of Cloud Ruler.

Arius Aurelius had treasured his handsome, athletic elder boy Rustem, seeing in him the future of their family and the Blades, while having Irkand trained as the Grand Master's left hand. The Night Mother was silent on whether Irkand was the perfect Listener by training instead of temperament, and he found that he didn't care. He was what he was: the perfect tool for killing. But sometimes he wondered what manner of man he'd be had that Ra Gada woman, Farah of the Forebears, had lived to see him reach adulthood.

_"Women are creatures of emotion,"_ Arius had instructed one day when the clouds scudded grey and grim over Cloud Ruler Temple. _"It serves a purpose. But even the oirans are unreliable because of it. Trust no woman who excites you beyond reason."_

Sigdrifa, one of the few times he'd agreed with the Norc woman, had called her father-in-law an arsehole and cheerfully voted to have him culled in the second year of the Great War. Of course, it had fallen to Irkand to arrange the man's death at Rustem's order. The warrior had been unamused with the assassin's methods.

_"You made me fucking kill him!"_ Rustem had screamed, his naginata still bloody with his father's blood after the practice gone wrong.

_"If I must be a kinslayer, so too shall you,"_ Irkand had responded coldly.

Esbern, the Fifth Blade, had recorded it all without prejudice or comment. Irkand had made sure, in tandem with Delphine, that the old man escaped Cloud Ruler when the gates were breached.

For most of his life, Irkand had ruled over his emotions, even with his niece. He fancied that the Ra Gada warrior he could have been emerged when around the empathic Lia, even when she looked at him without judgment.

But with Astrid… She filled his heart and senses whenever she was around, her smooth grace and poisoned-honey voice allowing him to understand the grace of Mara and Dibella. For that, he tried to be romantic, though he was certain the bouquet of flowers he'd gathered returning from Morthal would make her laugh.

He entered the Sanctuary through the front Black Door, feeling the pulse of _home_ soothe him. The news from Bruma had been bad, the terse mage-message sent by Marcurio even worse; he needed to ground himself, to find the peace he'd once had in simple meditation and killing. Maybe Astrid could help with that.

He was unsurprised to find Erandur here. The Priest of Mara considered himself indebted to the Dark Brotherhood and healed them without judgment; Irkand was glad to have saved him during that mad Mythic Dawn cultist's rampage. If the Dunmer knew that the assassin had deliberately triggered it, he said nothing.

"I have some news from Solstheim," the Dunmer said as Nazir urged him to sit, offering a hot cup of kaf. They did so, finding refuge in the hospitality of the Redguards; his Silencer saw fit to make sure Irkand learned the proper ways on discovering that his mother had died young. Irkand found peace in that too.

Astrid slid a bowl of Breton violet pastilles in his direction, a subtle commentary on Irkand indulging in his favoured garlic bread at the Frostfruit Inn on the way home. Babette, who'd become a strange sort of daughter to him, grinned cheekily as she sipped from a blood potion she'd distilled from Cicero's last kill.

Obediently selecting one and chewing on it to sweeten his breath, he casually laid the bouquet in front of his beloved, watching her blue eyes sparkle. From what he gathered, Arnbjorn had sometimes forgotten these little gestures of affection. Irkand wasn't _quite_ sure why they were important, but both Lia and the Night Mother said that it was the little things that strengthened a relationship.

Erandur paused in the conversation to smile benevolently upon the couple as they kissed briefly. No need to remind the poor man of what he wasn't getting any more, after all. "This is why I come here," the Dunmer observed quietly. "The love between you makes Mara smile."

"And gives me honey-sickness," Nazir drawled sardonically. He didn't even have the grace to wince when Irkand kicked him under the table in reprimand.

"And this is why you and your hand are intimately acquainted," Erandur responded with the beautifully deadpan delivery only a Dunmer could pull off.

Astrid laughed delightedly as Nazir rolled his eyes. Irkand looked around the table and realised he really should do some recruiting soon. But that was an issue for another time. "Thank you," he answered sincerely. "I still honour Mara and Dibella."

"That's good… But I digress." Erandur sipped his kaf, savouring it. Irkand didn't know where Nazir got the stuff, but he wasn't going to ask. The bitter black drink was an excellent stimulant. "There's a new Daedric Prince."

_"Azura managed to pull it off. I'm impressed,"_ the Night Mother noted. Irkand knew enough about the Goddess of Twilight to guess who the new Prince was.

"Irileth?" he murmured.

"One and the same. She is… the Dunmer, I guess. The Red Mountain and all of that." Erandur shrugged. "I will go to Mara on my death. I just thought I'd share the news with you."

"Thank you, Erandur," Astrid said with true gratitude. "Is there anything we can do to make your life easier at Nightcaller Temple?"

"No." Erandur's smile was a little sad. "I have made my peace with the ghosts there. Soon, I will join them."

"…The world will be a poorer place," Irkand observed, surprising himself with his sincerity. Erandur had come to his own peace through great struggle and turmoil, achieving the sort of serenity only saints possessed. The Listener was a little envious of him. To have such certainty and purpose again, to be secure in your life…

"If I am mourned, I will not be forgotten," the Dunmer stated softly, half to himself. "I will be thought of with affection. Thank you, Mara."

_That poor man,_ Irkand thought sadly. But he wouldn't insult the priest by saying anything aloud.

Erandur finished his kaf and rose to his feet. "I should return before it gets dark," he said. "Thank you for the hospitality."

"You're welcome." Astrid saw him out as Irkand had just returned from travelling. She soon returned, running a scarred hand through her golden hair. For the most part, her face was untouched, and Babette had managed to heal enough of her body to make her functional in a fight.

But there were be scars. Irkand was never there in time to save the women he loved from permanent maiming.

Babette and Nazir excused themselves, leaving the lovers alone. Irkand shifted in his seat, feeling his thigh press against something slipped into his back pocket. Drawing it out, he frowned in puzzlement: golden disks strung on a cord, the pendant the abstract symbol of the Goddess Mara. He could feel the Aedric enchantments woven through it.

_Erandur must have left it,_ he thought, impressed by the Dunmer's stealth. _But why?_

He looked at Astrid to ask the question about the Amulet's significance when her expression took his breath away. Wide-eyed, she glowed with happiness, those ruddy lips curved in a genuine smile.

"An Amulet of Mara?" she asked with studied casualness. "You're looking for marriage then?"

_Gods. Oh gods. Sithis help me._ Irkand's world stuttered to a stop at the thought of wedding Astrid. Everything possessive in him screamed yes but the cold-eyed killer inside pointed out that emotion was a liability and-

"Yes!" he blurted, trampling on the killer for a moment.

"Anyone in mind?" she asked carefully.

"Yes… Yes, Sithis yes," he breathed, unable to find the words to articulate his feelings. "She's deadly, she's so beautiful she stops my heart every time she looks at me. I know I'm not a big burly hairy Nord, but she wants me anyway. I think."

Astrid swallowed thickly. "I… loved Arnbjorn. He was loyal and protective. He would have killed for me… But I don't know if he'd have _died_ for me," she confessed. "You… You charged into the flames to save me, Irkand. You committed _treason_ for me. I-I fell in love with you then, I think."

Irkand offered the Amulet. "Will you spend the rest of your life with me until we go to the Void?"

_"Sithis will take you both at the same time,"_ the Night Mother promised in benediction.

"Yes," Astrid murmured. "Yes."

…

Riften, 25th Rain's Hand 4E 202

Maramal knew the scent of Sithis, deathbell and nightshade, but he also knew the feeling of true love shared, two souls bound together to become stronger. So he ignored the stench and performed the ceremony, for Mara judged none who loved freely and willingly.

An interesting collection of guests gathered in the Temple of Mara: a bronze-skinned woman with a strong resemblance to the Listener, her right arm stunted; a worn-looking blond man in dusty grey robes accompanied by the Harbinger; a Dunmer Priest of Mara; a child-vampire, a jester and a Redguard; Ulfric Stormcloak; Brynjolf and Delvin of the Thieves' Guild; and an ancient Orc, of all things, clad in Dawnguard armour. They all cared for the Listener and his bride, who could only be the infamous Astrid.

It wasn't Maramal's place to judge. So he performed the ceremony, basked in the strong love between them, and accepted a generous donation he'd give to the orphanage as atonement. But he certainly felt relieved when they left, even if the Dunmer regarded him with censure.

"I'm sorry about that," Erandur murmured to Astrid and Irkand just outside the Temple. "Maramal can be a self-righteous prick."

"I honestly hadn't noticed," Astrid responded, glancing at the Temple. "I only saw Irkand."

"I saw only you," Irkand agreed, ignoring his grand-nephew's exaggerated retching at the adoring tone to his silk-smooth voice. Martin in the Grey Fox's cowl was… unexpected. But appropriate – and shrewd of the boy, if he reached an honest deal with Nocturnal.

As Irkand's nearest female kin, Lia stepped forward with the garlands of flowers to crown them both. "Nightshade and deathbell?" Astrid asked, surprised.

"Both are poisons," the Dawnbringer replied softly. "But it is a kind poison they make, the Drink of Peace; together, they slow down the body and stop the heart. The victim slips into sleep and then into death."

"I didn't know that," Irkand said. He thought he knew much about alchemy.

"Nor did I," Astrid agreed, sounding impressed.

"It's also called 'Lover's Last Kiss'," Lia continued, her turquoise eyes sad. "Companions of Cyrodiil drink it when their lords die so they can be buried together."

"I do not regret killing Mede," Irkand told his niece in Akaviri. "Not one fucking bit."

Lia smiled, the expression one of sorrowful joy. "You've found death and peace with this woman, Uncle. And… if Balgruuf and I fail, this will be a kinder death than Harkon or Alduin."

Babette, of all people, was sniffling in the background even though vampires couldn't weep. Given that Lia was here, in the flesh, he would need to see if the child-vampire wanted to be cured. He also suspected the crumbling of all the soul gems with souls stored in them had something to do with Lia.

_Peaceful death…_ Irkand had never been taught such a thing. A kind death, a gentle death, a loving death. This was a gift beyond price, though few would understand why.

Balgruuf, clad in his Greybeard's robe, joined Lia. Irkand had to respect the Dragonborn for sheer endurance, though he and Lia both looked stretched thin. Neither Harkon nor Alduin would kindly allow one to be destroyed and then the other; both dangers were simultaneous, forcing the pair to be separated more than they should. "Thank you. I hope you find happiness with Astrid."

Ulfric, an unlikely friend, was next. The militant Tongue wore the armour of the Blades now, his green eyes hard and grieving; Irkand would have no wish to get in his way. "I have it on the best of authority that Elenwen is still in Markarth," he murmured. "I would… like to kill her myself, but I figure this is as good a wedding present as anything else."

Irkand grinned at the man. "Thanks," he told the renegade.

Durak, once marriage-kin, had apparently accompanied Lia. Another Dawnguard warrior, Celann, was apparently organising some mission the trio would be undertaking soon. "Rustem lives," the Orc growled. "Once Harkon is done for, there will be no vengeance from us if you want him."

Irkand nodded appreciatively, but replied, "I killed my father. I'd just as rather not kill Rustem, as much as I'd like to. He owes others greater debts."

The Orc grunted approvingly as Martin came up. Farkas, who Irkand barely knew, hung around in the background and the Dark Brotherhood would make their gifts later. For once, Cicero was _behaving_. Probably because Nazir and Babette had threatened grievous bodily harm if he misbehaved.

"I found these," the boy announced, dropping a pair of fine gold and ruby rings into Astrid's hand.

"Found?" Irkand asked dryly.

"Yes, _found,_" Martin retorted defiantly. "Mister Maramal really should keep his windows locked tighter instead of being a jerk."

Irkand stared at him before bursting into laughter. Full, free, joyous laughter. It wasn't until he received odd looks from Ulfric and Erandur that he realised no one else could see Martin. He could only imagine the trouble the boy would start.

Delvin approached Irkand and whispered, "Break her fucking heart and I'll break your fucking neck." The Listener decided then and there he was _never _going to recruit the Nightingale. Delvin might actually be almost dangerous.

The others made their congratulations and then farewells as the sun westered. Perhaps they knew that Irkand was looking forward to taking advantage of the Bee and Barb's wedding special.

Finally everyone left, but not before Irkand stopped Lia and Balgruuf to give them a bit of advice. "Spend a little time together _now_," he advised. "You can't sustain a battle on words and honour alone."

He wouldn't usually get involved in his niece's love life, but both she and Balgruuf needed something solid to stand on, something to fight for. Titus Mede was dead, the Empire in disarray… They should grab happiness while they could.

Lia nodded slowly, smiling faintly, and took the Dragonborn by the hand to lead him (thank Sithis!) elsewhere. Finally, Irkand was alone with his wife, free to make their way to the room they rented at the Bee and Barb.

The fragrance of nightshade and deathbell was thick in the air, honey on his tongue, and the grace of Sithis upon them that night. The Night Mother's benediction, a mother's love, lingered over them as they made love. A cool hand on a fevered brow. The blessed silence after a hectic day. The absence which made one keenly aware of what was missed. Sithis was many things, more than mortals could comprehend – for didn't the Void make one more aware of the stars and the moons? Poor Cicero feared the silence, but in the quiet of the night, Irkand listened to Astrid breathe in a peaceful slumber and understood at long last he'd found his place to stand.


	13. Absurdity Has Become Necessity

Note: On a roll from the previous chapter. Moar sweetness and maybe a bit of refuge in audacity.

…

**Absurdity Has Become Necessity**

Honeyside, Riften, 26th 4E 202

"I didn't know you were a homeowner," Balgruuf observed as Lia unlocked the door to a small home on the outskirts of Riften.

"I'm not," she replied, opening the door. "The Dawnguard owns this house and I got a key."

Inside, it was warm and homey, much like the Bee and Barb. Celann, the too-handsome Breton Dawnguard, was shirtless and cooking something that smelt delicious. "So that's the Listener?" he asked Lia over his shoulder. "Took me a bit to see the resemblance to Isran."

"Trust you to be sneaking around," Lia retorted dryly. Balgruuf recalled that the leader of the Dawnguard had been her father… and Grand Master of the Blades, apparently. _And_ had tried to kill Lia when she was a vampire.

"Sit down, have something to eat," Celann urged them both. "We've got new orders from the Fort. Where's Durak?"

"Talking to some of the more desperate Bruma refugees," Lia answered, taking a seat. "And probably going to talk to Farkas."

"Isran won't be happy about that," Celann observed, dishing up bowls of stew for the three of them. Balgruuf resented the man's easiness in Lia's presence but decided not to say anything. Irkand was right – they needed a bit of quiet time, a moment of sanity, to find their place to stand.

"The Dawnguard will not be able to stand against Harkon alone," Lia pointed out. "And Farkas is the Harbinger. He has the Foresight of Ysgramor."

"Preaching to the choir," Celann agreed. "I mean, Esbern's willing to help us, and Ralof has dispatched some of the more aggressive Stormcloaks our way."

"And Laila owes us for that Volkihar which was trying to infiltrate her court," Lia added, digging her spoon into the gelatinous but delicious-smelling bowl of stew. Balgruuf, still recovering from his meditations on High Hrothgar, ate slower than her. His stomach still couldn't hold a lot.

The stew was rich and flavoursome, heaven on a tongue that was used to dried meat and snowberries. Balgruuf wasn't certain he could look another snowberry in the eye after this. "What meat is this?" he asked.

"Wolf," Celann responded. "Couple attacked us on our way here."

"Grandpa shot one and Celann got the other," Lia confessed wryly. "It will… take a while to regain the full use of my arm."

He'd noticed the return of the limb, albeit stunted and weaker than her left. It was strange to see her forearm and hand free of those damned tattoos, the ones which proclaimed someone else had owned her. Balgruuf had bit his tongue when she explained the purpose of the poison recipe she'd given Astrid and Irkand as a wedding present. The Empire had a lot to answer for… It was tragic that the commoners were paying for it.

"Galathil," she explained to Balgruuf. "Cost me… well… a lot. But I have both arms again. She couldn't heal me while I was a vampire."

He kept silent while he ate. He'd lost the ability to talk and eat. Much of the Jarl's polish he'd once possessed was ripped away by grief and pride. Now all he had was himself, his Voice and perhaps his family.

"You must tell me how you were cured," he said after finishing the meal.

Lia looked him in the eyes deliberately and shook her head. "No. Some things cannot be shared."

"I… see." He already knew that there was much about her early life – between Cloud Ruler and being found by her uncle – she'd not share. It hurt that she didn't want to talk about such dark times. Maybe she felt he'd be disgusted. Balgruuf didn't know.

"She won't tell me either," Celann said. "All we know is she arrived with a freakin' Bosmer in tow after vanishing bodily, in front of me, in Morthal."

"I died and came back," Lia said tersely. "And Ronthil isn't that bad. We managed to cure him, didn't we?"

"True…" Celann sighed. He looked to Balgruuf. "Sorry, things are tense as hell. Durak and I are running interference between Lia and Isran because… uh…"

"There's a grudge there," the Dawnbringer admitted. "But… can we stop dissecting this? The orders can wait until tomorrow but I want to spend some time… _alone_… with Balgruuf."

The Breton chuckled and rose to his feet. "I'll be at the Bunkhouse," he told them.

"Watch out for the horker tusk," Lia countered.

Celann laughed and Balgruuf figured it was a private joke. "Stendarr protect you."

Once he was gone, Lia sighed in relief and gathered the wooden bowls for washing. "He's a good man, flexible for a Vigilant of Stendarr, but still…"

Balgruuf stood, happy to shuck his dirty robe. He'd need to see about getting it cleaned before he left. "Do you need help with that?"

"Do you know how to scrub dishes?" Lia asked, a thread of the old wry warmth in her voice. She was much thinner than the woman he'd met under the Skyforge, the dross burned away to reveal the steel within, her beauty weathered and worn. She wore a ring around her neck whose colour and shape he couldn't define.

"It can't be that hard, right?"

It turned out that Celann had left the breakfast dishes as well without even soaking them, so scrubbing off crusted wheat gruel _was_ harder than he realised. They worked in silence for a while, Lia scrubbing the pots presumably to build up her right arm's strength, and then she began to talk in a mixture of languages: Colovian, Nord, Dunmeris and a touch of Akaviri. Balgruuf realised she was telling him her story the only way she could; once or twice, when describing her youth in the Khajiit camps, she actually purred a word. In High Hrothgar, he'd learned to listen. And so he did as the Dawnbringer brought her deepest darkest secrets to light.

"How did you survive it?" he asked, when the story ended with her being chosen as Titus Mede's consort.

"I just did," she said simply. "There's always a taste of sweet in the bitter. I was happy with the Khajiit and unhappy at Cloud Ruler. The Khajiit have a proverb: _'gzalzi vaberzarita maaszi'_ – 'absurdity has become necessity'. It's absurd that I survived so much. But… apparently necessary, if I may be so arrogant to count myself amongst the ranks of the heroes."

"It is not arrogance. You, Irileth, Farkas and I will face Alduin in Sovngarde." Balgruuf sighed, setting aside a wooden plate to dry. "It was good to see my family again. Thank you for telling me to speak to them."

"Your children and mine will face another Great War," Lia said softly. "What's happening in Cyrodiil is only the beginning."

"I… know." Balgruuf closed his eyes against the tears that threatened. "Now and then, I wonder if it's better for Alduin to win."

"If Akatosh wanted him on the loose, you wouldn't be Dragonborn," she pointed out, touching his cheek gently. "Let's focus on the battle we can win, yeah?"

Balgruuf rested his forehead against hers. "Farkas and I have a lead on an Elder Scroll."

"I have one, but it revolves around the Tyranny of the Sun prophecy – I think," she responded. "Durak, Celann and I are heading to Dragon Bridge to track down a Moth Priest."

The Dragonborn suddenly laughed. "How can you be so casual about having an Elder Scroll?" he asked.

"Well, I died, met the Redguard god of death, travelled through the Soul Cairn, grabbed the Scroll and left the Daughter of Coldharbour and an undead dragon fighting each other while I made my escape," she told him dryly. "I wound up back in Castle Volkihar, got the Ring of Khajiiti, grabbed Ronthil – who'd done his best to try and make my life as a vampire easier – and escaped after throwing a Frenzy spell at the two main rivals for Harkon's throne."

"…That is such a… Khajiit thing to do," Balgruuf observed with a grin.

"Given that I was effectively raised by Khajiiti Blades, you're not far wrong," she pointed out.

_"Gzalzi vaberzarita maaszi,"_ he said, mangling the complicated purring word so horribly Elseweyr would declare war on him for insulting their ancient language.

Lia grinned broadly at him. "You're right. I can't fight in the conventional sense, so I will need to make necessity of absurdity." Then she chuckled evilly, a sound that both worried and aroused Balgruuf.

He reached for her, unsure of when Celann would return, and planted a kiss on her lips. Both of them, thin and barely repaired after being broken, trying to muddle their way through saving the world. For a moment they just held each other, listening to the night sounds of a subdued Riften… until the window-shutter rattled.

"Vex, fuck off," Lia announced wearily. "I'm trying to have sex here."

"Sorry," answered the Thief's best burglar. "I was just updating the shadowmark."

"Oh. Sorry." Lia turned back to Balgruuf, who just felt bemused, and grabbed him to give another big kiss. This might be the only night they'd have…

…

Whoever Balgruuf's previous lovers had been (she knew about Irileth, his late wife Svanhild and Nelkir's mother, but there could always be more), they'd taught him well. She was somewhere past her second orgasm before he sheathed himself in her with a grunt of relief, having driven her crazy by single-mindedly pursuing her pleasure. Used to doing all the work, Lia was surprised… and appreciated it.

"Sedinkoorven," he rumbled, the edge of the Thu'um in his Voice, just before he came.

"Sahkren Vahlok Keizaal," she murmured in response. That name was so… him. So right. When he'd told her during their talk, she knew it was the right dovah name for him.

They didn't have much time alone before Celann returned, whistling, and Durak hammered on the door to be let in because he'd lost the key _again._ Lia looked outside and saw the grey light of dawn through the shutters. She hoped she could nap for a bit because knowing her jackass of a father, he'd have something that would distract her from finding that Moth Priest.

_I need to make sure Cloud Ruler doesn't happen again,_ she thought grimly. _The Dawnguard will need to be united – preferably with the Blades. Esbern agrees that once Alduin is dead, we will likely have no purpose. Once we get this Priest to read the Sun Scroll…_

But rest was not to be had. Balgruuf had dozed off and she didn't begrudge him the sleep. His burden was bigger than hers – and she had people to help her fight Harkon. Balgruuf, aside from a few Blades and Farkas, was on his own.

So she donned a long shirt and got the door for her grandfather. Durak sniffed pointedly and said, "Will I need to talk to Balgruuf concerning his attentions?"

"Really?" she asked him in exasperation. "I'm a big girl, grandpa. I can take care of myself."

"I know you can. But it hurts that you've been on your own so long when we should have done something about it." Durak shrugged, letting the issue go with typical Orc pragmatism. "Your father's diverting us to Markarth. Something big is going on there with the Thalmor and since you said that Vingalmo was boasting about his Thalmor connections…"

"Dragon Bridge first, because we need that Moth Priest. It's on the way anyway," Lia pointed out, glancing over her shoulder at Balgruuf. "Do we need any supplies? Wylandriah's an idiot but she's a good source for enchanted scrolls."

Durak snorted. "Go back to your boyfriend and get some sleep. The carriage won't head out until two hours past noon anyway."

"Yes, grandpa," Lia responded with false meekness, happy to have an order she could obey.

_Ah, Dad, bless you for sending me where I'll need to go anyways,_ she thought sardonically as she curled up beside Balgruuf. _Because if I know my rumours right, an old friend will be there to help me out…_

Absurdity had become necessity, and who knew that better than the Khajiit?


	14. A Power Beyond Mortal Grasp

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Timeout is done; back into the shenanigans. I am skipping all the Ancestor Moth Ritual crap because I figure an Elder Scroll can be read by someone it resonates with (totally stealing that from OpalBee). Balgruuf, obviously, resonates with Elder Scroll (Dragon) and Lia with Elder Scroll (Sun)… But who belongs to Elder Scroll (Blood)? Muahahahahaha.

My explanation of CHIM/mantling is interpretation of lore and head-canon. Do not take it as an actual explanation. All of the four main protagonists – the 'Four Winds' – will be/have been exposed to this in one way or another.

For those who are wondering, the one-shot 'The Weak and the Strong' is chronologically directly after this chapter, as I didn't want to cover that plot-point in game. Read it please, because future chapters will reference it.

…

**A Power Beyond Mortal Grasp**

Blackreach, 30th Rain's Hand 4E 202

After everything he'd been through over the past year, Blackreach was a walk in the park for Balgruuf, especially with Farkas at his side. When he'd asked the Harbinger if the Companions were being neglected by his absence from them, the burly warrior burst out laughing and said, "Nah. If I get eaten by Alduin, Vilkas will take over. Or maybe Ria; she's a steady one."

"I miss the days at Jorrvaskr," Balgruuf admitted wearily as they walked through an eerily beautiful landscape populated by (now-dead) Falmer. "I miss Kodlak."

"Me too," Farkas agreed sadly. "But things change. It's the way of the world."

"I'm not the man I was then. I don't even know if I want to be High King."

Farkas shrugged broad shoulders. "Then don't be. Marry someone from the Stormcloak side to an Imperial supporter an' put _them_ in charge."

Balgruuf sighed. He envied Farkas his uncomplicated viewpoint. "It's not that simple."

"It's as simple or not as you want," the Harbinger responded calmly. "You're not a Jarl now. An' if you become High King, you can't marry Lia, simple as that. Blades can't be nobles, remember?"

The topic of marriage had never come up between him and Lia. Come to think of it, any discussion of post-Alduin revolved around rebuilding Skyrim and helping their children to face the Thalmor. Balgruuf knew he'd marry the woman in a heartbeat, but she hadn't brought it up and given her past, probably didn't expect to be his wife. "Do Dibellans marry?" he asked.

"Well, probably," Farkas chuckled. "I can just imagine the weddin': pre-ceremony sex, ceremony sex, an' then post-ceremony sex. Maybe the sacrifice of a vampire in between. Dibella don't like those, Lia said."

"Most people don't," Balgruuf pointed out, trying not to worry about Lia being the one to more or less take on Harkon by herself. He had to trust she could take care of herself – she'd survived just fine on her own before he came along and if Alduin ate him, she'd probably find a way to survive long enough to kill the overgrown lizard.

They entered the place where the Elder Scroll was kept and were faced with a Dwemer lock in the form of rotating mirrors. Balgruuf put in the lexicon and pressed buttons until the mirrors aligned to refract light into the appropriate places, advised by Farkas with his wolf-keen sight. Finally, it was done – the Elder Scroll of the Dragon dropped into his hands, which convulsed around the golden tube as if to say _this is mine._

The duo exchanged glances. The endgame against Alduin had begun.

…

Dragon Bridge, 2nd Second Seed 4E 202

"What were they?"

"Vampires wanting to end the world," Celann told the Moth Priest as Lia and Durak made certain of the remaining Volkihar. The remnant of the Vigilant that lay within was worried about the Ring of Khajiiti that Lia wore on a chain around her neck but the pragmatist inside understood there were worse threats than Meridia. No one could fault Lia's dedication to the protection of mortals.

"Ah. The Volkihar." The Priest raised dim eyes to Celann, smiling slightly. "The Moth Priests have felt the tremors of the Elder Scrolls moving in Skyrim. So I was sent here with ten guards."

"Well! Fura Bloodmouth – my day just got better," Ronthil, who'd joined them in Dragon Bridge, observed cheerfully. "If she's been dispatched, Harkon must have gotten desperate."

"I hope so," Lia answered, decapitating the vampire. "Because I'll drive that bastard and his wretched castle into the sea."

"And to think you doubted her being the child of Isran," Durak told Celann dryly.

"Not all of us can be as perceptive as you," the Breton retorted. "So… we have the Priest. Now what?"

"We dump him on Esbern – forgive the bluntness, but we're on a time-critical mission to Markarth," Lia said to Dexion apologetically. "The Blades Chronicler can set you up in Sky Haven Temple."

"You've nothing to apologise for, Dawnbringer," Dexion said quite cheerfully. "You're doing everything you should. Might I offer you some advice though?"

"Of course." Lia glanced at the others. "Moth Priests have certain abilities at foresight due to their reading of the Scrolls."

"Do not be afraid to embrace _all_ of your ancestry," he told her. "For your strength comes from _every_ ancestor."

Lia's eyes narrowed before he nodded. "Got it," she murmured. "Hope there's some friendly Orcs nearby."

"I'll get you in," Durak rumbled, his voice proud.

"Moth and Ghorza from Bagol," Celann said. "They're in Markarth."

"Works for me." Lia sighed, raking her hand through short black hair. Rumour had it she'd been one of the legendary Companions of Cyrodiil, the crème de la crème of courtesans selected for their beauty and capacity for devotion, and given to Titus Mede as a gift. But she didn't seem anything other than relieved about the Emperor's death and the woman before him was attractive, but not supernally so, with her coarsened skin and callused hands.

Maybe the Companion had been the chrysalis of the Grand Master of the Blades. Lia had made it abundantly clear she held no loyalty to the Dawnguard beyond mutual enemies; her allegiance was to the Dragonborn and then the Blades. Celann, on meeting the worn, sunken-eyed man in grey priest's robes who called himself Balgruuf, had been startled by the depth of warmth in her gaze when she looked upon him. Being kicked out of Honeyside had made it abundantly clear they were grasping at every bit of happiness they could get.

Celann sighed, looking over his shoulder in the direction of Riften. Isran snapping and trying to kill Lia had done absolutely nothing to instil confidence in the Dawnguard's leadership. Learning that the Redguard was once the Grand Master of the Blades, a coward who abandoned his people to die at Cloud Ruler, had been… troubling.

Lia helped Dexion onto her horse after stripping everything useful from the corpses of the dead and piling them neatly on a bed of dry boughs to burn. She was assiduous in cleansing the corpses of vampires and their victims. Dibellans were like that.

Celann hopped onto his own wretched bay mare and dropped back to speak with Durak on his solid grey plowhorse. "Isran is playing silly buggers with us," he observed quietly to the Norc.

"I know that. But following the Dawnbringer has allowed us to make more progress against the Volkihar in six weeks than we did in six months under Rustem," the former chief responded with typical bluntness. "My granddaughter gets results, if nothing else."

"Lia's been dropping hints about merging the Dawnguard with the Blades," Celann continued. "But our mission is to fight the vampires while theirs is to serve the Dragonborn."

"As I understand it, Balgruuf is the Last Dragonborn," Durak noted as they plodded along into Forsworn territory. "Lia looks beyond the battle with Alduin to the future."

"Ah." Celann had only known one Blade, the Khajiit Ri'Myrrh. Old even during the Great War, she had appeared out of nowhere to save him from the vampires who had killed his mother, depositing him with the Vigil. That she had trained Lia told him much about the mix-blood.

"So what do Gunmar and Sorine have to say about… everything?" The smith and Dwemer specialist were vital to the Dawnguard's success and therefore were respected by the old-timers.

"Gunmar's pretty disturbed by Rustem's temper tantrum on the discovery of his previous occupation," Durak answered, guiding his horse easily. "Sorine doesn't care who leads so long as she can work in peace."

Celann grunted. No help there. "I just hope the fort's safe while we're gone," he observed. "We're the two best warriors."

Durak's response was hardly reassuring. "If they cannot stand without us, then they are too weak to survive."

…

Sky Haven Temple, 3rd Second Seed

Aurelia Swan-Neck sighed, brushing her daughter's hair. It had been something of a miracle Gold-Lily escaped the purge in Cyrodiil and made her way to Skyrim by dint of donning Thalmor robes… But painful. Swan-Neck thought of Marius and wondered where his loyalties lay.

By dint of being a Breton, Esbern had sweet-talked the Forsworn into allowing free passage for all Blades and by extension the Dawnguard; no one liked vampires and knowing that Molag Bal was behind it made it all the worse. One of the mage-messages from Lia indicated that the King of Domination was also behind the Thalmor, which made hideous sense but also chilled Swan-Neck to the bone. This was about the fourth or fifth apocalypse she'd survived in nearly a thousand years of life.

Finally Gold-Lily's hair was appropriately arranged as befitted an oiran. Both mother and daughter had the narrow faces, golden skin and marigold gaze that the Altmer prized yet hair black as night fell to their ankles (well, Swan-Neck's was more iron-grey, but still…) and their features the flat, slant-eyed, aquiline-nosed form of the oldest Akaviri-Colovian Aurelii. In all of Tamriel, Swan-Neck was likely the only one to remember the Tsaesci… and to have known Talos.

Gold-Lily rose and bowed before leaving. Swan-Neck expected her cygnets to obey proper protocol, to know their place; it was only ever the Nords who refused to do so. She remembered Northstar, a whirlwind of fists and fury who had become the most unlikely oiran of all time, and Too-Tall, who only settled down in fear of what Titus Mede could do to the clan. But when it came down to the clan's survival, it was the wild ones who were always the saving of it.

Much to her surprise, Ulfric Stormcloak knocked on the door. Proud and fierce even in defeat, the former Jarl had willingly lent his Voice to the Blades, training up a Nord named Erik in the ways of the Greybeards. Now Galmar, his former huscarl, had also joined them since someone called Ralof was apparently 'smart enough to be left unsupervised'.

She nodded regally and gestured for him to sit. It would be unwise to force the volatile Tongue to obey protocol after what the Thalmor had done to him. Swan-Neck was always on eggshells around him; so it was passing strange that he would seek her out.

Ulfric, predictably, remained standing. Swan-Neck wasn't going to disturb her hairdo to look up at him, so she stared at a chest nearly broad as Tiber's and asked, "How might I help you, Tongue of the Blades?"

"I was told that you knew Talos," the Stormcloak said bluntly.

"I knew him on a _few_ levels," she answered dryly. "He acquired a taste for oirans after the Aurelii gave him their allegiance."

Much to her continuing surprise, Ulfric flushed with shame. "I'm sorry," he apologised. "I feel like that…"

"Everything you fought for has been lost again because of the Empire," Swan-Neck finished gently. "I know the feeling, Stormcloak. The Thalmor have slaughtered my clan twice."

"Do you believe Talos is a god?" he asked challengingly.

"It depends on how you define 'god'," she explained gently. "My mother, before she joined the Aurelii, was the daughter of a member of the Psijic Order, the Keepers of the Old Ways. Once, the Altmer worshipped _all_ their ancestors as Aedra and believed that any meritorious individual could join their ranks. Obviously, 'evil' people became Daedra."

Ulfric, no fool, narrowed his green eyes. "You believe that Talos is an Aedra."

"Yes, one of many. My definition of Aedra and Daedra may be considered heretical because I consider Northstar-Sheogorath one of the former despite living in Oblivion, because I knew Her as a mortal woman. Both she and Talos were CHIM; they understood the breadth of existence and their place in it, making the laws of the world bend to their whims. Every time Talos reached a setback, he found a way around it… or the universe provided a solution. Northstar was similar, but on a smaller scale; had Martin Septim survived the Oblivion Crisis, she likely would have been Empress, and the Aurelii the first amongst clans."

Ulfric grunted. "You believe in Talos' divinity. Works for me."

"That Talos mantled Lorkhan is… indisputable." Swan-Neck sighed and poured herself a cup of tea. "But before him, Wulfharth/Ysmir mantled Shor and Alessia merged with Akatosh. Every several hundred years, I have noticed, a new incarnation of the Hero-God is spun out to replace the old. At the darkest hour of mortalkind, a hero arises to save them… and then for a while is worshipped. Then they fade to join the other Aedra and a new cycle begins."

Ulfric huffed a wry laugh. "So Balgruuf's the new Hero-God?"

"Perhaps. Perhaps not. For a while, with the Septims, we didn't need a Hero-God as their blood kept the barriers between worlds strong." Some secrets were none of Ulfric's business; those, Swan-Neck would take to the grave for everyone's sake. "It might very well be Titus Mede's son Martin Aurelius; Divines know the boy was bred from our oldest bloodline to be a weapon against the Thalmor."

Ulfric's eyes widened, then narrowed. "Lia of Bruma is the mother."

_No, not a fool this one… _"Yes. Unfortunately, the plans of men will disrupt the plans of gods, for that's the world Auriel made. I know only that Martin lives, but I cannot find him… and knowing Lia, she won't tell me a damned thing."

Ulfric grunted. "That's Ralof's problem now, not mine. I suppose I can work with you, High Elf. Just don't expect me to be your friend."

Swan-Neck regarded him sourly. "You are amongst the last people on Nirn I'd wish to be friends with. You stink, your manners are uncouth and you're racist."

The Stormcloak grinned. "Better an honest enemy than a false friend." He nodded curtly and left abruptly, allowing Swan-Neck to enjoy her tea in peace.

…Or so she thought. Too-Tall, who everyone now called Lia or Dawnbringer, rapped on the doorframe. "When did you get here?" Swan-Neck asked. Rumour had it she was dead or a vampire or something.

"Two hours ago," the mix-blood responded wearily. She looked a shadow of the beauty that Swan-Neck had coaxed from the wild child raised by Khajiit Irkand had brought in. Wind-tousled hair, roughened skin, lines around eyes and mouth, callused hands… "And don't look at me like that. I'm the Grand Master of the Blades, not a bloody attendant."

"I… see." Swan-Neck took a largish mouthful of her tea. "Please tell me you have more manners than Ulfric."

"When it comes to Altmer, a draugr's got better manners than Ulfric," she observed dryly, sitting down without a prompt from Swan-Neck. Her body language, straight shoulders and direct gaze, indicated that she was in charge… and making sure everyone knew it. Whatever hellish experiences she'd been through, they'd given her quite the backbone.

"Draugr?"

"Zombie." Lia poured herself some tea. At least she still had her manners, even if her posture had shifted from the deceptively submissive oiran to the steely one of Lucius, Caius and generations of Aurelii who'd done whatever was necessary to save the world.

"Ah." Swan-Neck set aside her empty teacup, eyes taking in every detail of Lia. "I seem to recall your arms being symmetrical."

"Lost one to Alduin. Had to wait until I was cured of vampirism before getting Galathil to heal it as much as she could." Lia's statement was as commonplace as Swan-Neck commanding her children to arrange the orange blossoms correctly in spring.

"Galathil the face-sculptor?" Swan-Neck was relieved to know the woman was alive. She had some wrinkles that needed to go.

"One and the same."

"And yet you didn't have her remove the scar on your cheek or straighten your nose?"

"What scar..? Oh, the one I got when I was smacked in the face by a plank when the Winter War went down." Lia laughed slightly, ruefully, as her fingers smeared the turquoise war-paint that covered the fine faded line. "I'd completely forgotten about that. More important things, you know?"

_More important things._ Why was it always the Nords who were always the most difficult? "I see you've stopped filing your prominent under-canines."

"I'm a bloody Norc. My eyes, my hair? They come from a clan in the northeast that call themselves Half-Moon Hold. Half-Nord, half-Orc, fantastic people who don't expect me to whore myself for their purposes."

Swan-Neck had the grace to wince at the blunt dig. "I'm not going to say I'm sorry, child. It is a woman's duty to go where the clan wants her to."

"Well, that's going to change. There's going to be no more oiran or Blade. The daughters of the Aurelii will be one, both or none as it pleases them." Lia's voice was flat. "I'm angry. I admit that. I also understand the reasons why you sold me to Titus Mede. But by the gods, I am no man's toy, no clan's whore, and sure's hell no one's follower."

Swan-Neck took a careful breath. "What is your point?"

"I'm making myself clan war-leader. Uncle Irkand's now Dark Brotherhood and Father's running the Dawnguard… and everyone else died at Bruma or Cloud Ruler," Lia replied bluntly. "Martin's as safe as can be managed with vampires and dragons running around but we need to prepare to first take on the Volkihar… and then the Thalmor."

Swan-Neck made a choked noise at the casual mention of Bruma. "How can you be so… blasé… about what happened at Bruma?"

Lia's eyes glittered like turquoise gems, hard and shining. "I survived Cloud Ruler while you hid in Pale Pass, Swan-Neck."

Swan-Neck took a shuddering breath. "You have grown hard, Too-Tall-"

_"I am not too tall."_ Lia's voice had grown even harder. "You gave me that name because I wasn't short enough to suit your sensibilities. Because I, aside from Gold-Lily, was the only one who could look you in the eyes."

The woman leaned forward, gesturing sharply. "Since leaving Cyrodiil, I have been caught in a shipwreck, impaled on a sword while battling for the right to stay Grand Master, had my arm bitten off by Alduin the World-Eater, become a vampire, cured myself of it, nearly been killed by my own father and fallen in love with the Dragonborn. I am the Grand Master of the Blades and Dawnbringer of Meridia. I bear the Ring of Khajiiti and am Number One on Molag Bal's shit list after breaking the Soul Cairn. So for fuck's sake, woman, stop treating me like one of your cygnets who accidentally pissed on the carpet."

_Why is it always the Nords?_ Swan-Neck thought woefully. But Lia was correct.

With a sigh, she rose to her feet and retreated to the chest behind the screen which divided sleeping area from public area. The Blades had given her one room just like everyone else – and apparently she was lucky she wasn't sharing. When she emerged, she had Lucius Aurelius' battle-banner rolled up in her arms.

"This banner was present when Talos broke the Siege of Cloud Ruler Temple at the beginning of the Third Era," Swan-Neck intoned softly, feeling the back of her neck prickle. "For eight centuries it has symbolised the warrior spirit of the Aurelii. We are the Dragonguard, the true heart of the Blades, and whosoever carries this banner in battle will be supported by the warriors of the clan… living and dead."

Lia accepted the banner with a stiff nod, eyes glittering. Something brighter than the sun and harder than diamonds shone therein for a moment. Swan-Neck concealed a gasp, for only once before had she seen a spark such as that.

"I am Sedinkoorven, the South Summer Wind, the Bruma Wind as the Nords call it. I am the Dawnbringer, the Bane of Dark Things and the Lover. I am the descendant of Northstar, Madgoddess. I am the bearer of the Elder Scroll of the Sun. I am Nord. I am Ra Gada. I am Orc. I am Colovian. And above all things, I will be one of the four to face Alduin at the end of days."

The second of the Four Winds had found her place and for a moment, the Wheel itself trembled, witnessed only by an ageing oiran. But Molag Bal heard and raged, for now the war had begun in earnest.


End file.
